Fic: Tactical to Practical (3/3)
Author’s Notes: I tried to keep this story a one-shot. Like most everything I write, it didn’t work. I didn’t have any idea how to end this story originally - all I knew was that I wanted to show that Fusco is a badass, too, even if it’s unintentional. I nearly gave up on it until I discovered Kevin Chapman and I share a mutual love (okay, mine’s more like an obsession or a way of freaking life) of hockey. They always say, ‘Write what you know,’ so I figured it I’d do just that. I mean, there has to be something Fusco can do that Reese can’t, right?
Disclaimer: Still not mine. The Crossing would have ended a lot differently if it were. No money made; please don’t sue.
Chapter | 1 | 2 | 3 |
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Chapter 3
As it turned out, it hadn't been John Reese's best day.
Despite Finch’s misgivings about his employee’s…enthusiasm during cases that involved children or battered women, even Harold was hard pressed to refute that their newest Number didn’t have an ass-whipping coming to him. Men like Martin Provost, mediocre ice arena manager moonlighting as a (horrible) contract hitman, often made John scratch his head in consternation.
That man had been the fastest sperm? Really?
Unfortunately for the ex-CIA agent, Provost compensated for his lack of brains with sheer muscle. A lot of it, and most definitely aided by a serious abuse of anabolic steroids. Provost had been dumb enough to keep his entire stash of needles and vials in a tool chest in the maintenance room of the rink. When Reese smashed the drawer over Martin’s head, destroying every single item in the process, it only served to enrage the already unstable man further.
From there, all bets were off and the brawl was on. Normally, that wouldn’t have been cause for any kind of concern, but Martin’s combination of muscle, unbridled rage and an ability to punch another person in the face while balancing on a piece of steel an eighth of an inch thick were skills that got Reese’s attention.
Apparently, as John was in the process of discovering, hockey had taught the Montreal native Provost how to fight.
Check that.
Apparently, hockey had taught the Montreal native Provost how to fight on a freshly resurfaced sheet of ice.
The skirmish that started in the maintenance room, one that had already netted Reese a couple of cracked ribs and a quick dunk in the vile slush pit used to empty out the Zamboni, spilled into the player’s benches ringing the rink, then into the penalty boxes (fitting, John thought even though he didn’t really know the first thing about hockey) and finally on to the ice surface itself. The rink was dark, abandoned for the night by even the most die-hard adult league players. The smell of propane spewed from the Zamboni hung in the air and a small layer of fog condensed low against the boards, disrupted only by the obscure shapes of two men as the pair went tumbling and skidding across the flat surface.
Reese resisted the urge to look down, lest he earn himself a punch for his troubles. The sensation under his feet was like nothing John had experienced before. Sure, there was that time in Russia when he’d managed to pick a fight with a mob boss’ group of enforcers on top of a frozen lake, but that had been much different. It was natural ice, pockmarked and full of ridges formed by wind as the surface froze over. Healthy helpings of snow gave him traction and John dispatched his would-be attackers with relative ease.
But this time, Reese’s feet fought to find purchase against the slick, perfectly flat and smooth, meticulously maintained surface. The dress shoes definitely didn’t help, but he couldn’t blame his lack of coordination solely on his choice of footwear. Provost, on the other hand, was seemingly unaffected by the change. His movements were still quick and precise, accurate to a ‘T’ as he reached across and grabbed the lapels of John’s overcoat. Provost grabbed a fistful of fabric and a healthy portion of Reese’s skin, locked out his left arm out and went to town throwing haymakers with his right.
Reese managed to duck the first punch, but the second caught him flush in the mouth. He added ‘dental work’ to the list of things he’d need to do that week as he spat out a chipped portion of his tooth. Linking his hands over Martin’s left arm, John pulled down as hard as he could, trying to break the man’s grip. He spun quickly, shimmying out of his soaked overcoat before he tossed it haphazardly across the rink. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Reese heard it land with a wet ‘plop’ near the blue line.
Provost, unwilling to concede the upper hand in the fight, reached out again, fingers clawing and tugging at John’s suit jacket. Reese felt the immediate temperature change when Martin yanked the expensive black garment clear over his head. A blast of cold air against bare skin followed as Provost ripped John’s white shirt and undershirt from its connection with his pants, pulling both over the ex-agent’s head with near surgical precision. Temporarily blinded, Reese ate a couple of strategically placed knees (John briefly wondered if that was very sportsmanlike in hockey) before he could push his shirt out of the way enough to see what he was doing.
But Reese was nothing if not resilient, hard-headed and incredibly stubborn. Dropping to one knee, John rolled onto his back, cringing as he felt the cold burn of the ice against his skin. He used his shoulders to initiate a half spin, kicking his right leg out as hard as he could. He felt his foot connect with Provost’s meaty leg, but didn’t hear the telltale ‘splat’ of the man’s weight falling to the ice to join him. Instead, all of the air previously stored in his lungs whooshed out like a backdraft, leaving him breathless and gasping when Provost’s knee slammed into his prone chest.
John brought his right hand up to shield his face, squirming and bucking underneath the weight of the much larger and taller man. Reese resisted the urge to roll his eyes as images of the giant Aryan leader he tried to fight when he first met Leon Tao flashed before his eyes. Or were the snippets of memories due to lack of oxygen? Reese was pretty certain that Provost, somewhere during the fight, managed to sink a tattoo-covered forearm underneath his chin and was putting considerable pressure onto his carotid artery. Unconsciousness, if he didn’t do something quickly, would swallow him whole in about fifteen seconds.
When times got tough, the tough fought dirty. Reaching up, Reese took his own advice and went for Provost’s throat, punching the behemoth of a man in the windpipe. The strike didn’t land exactly flush but it was enough to give John a moment to break free. He pulled his legs loose, kicking as hard as he could as he propelled his body backwards, skidding across the ice.
Provost, undeterred, shook his head once, went red (redder) in the face and then launched himself at Reese. He landed on top of the smaller man and began raining down punches with ferocity that John hadn’t seen in a very long time. The ex-op managed to block a few of the strikes, but he couldn’t stop them all. He felt his nose pop when Provost’s fist connected with the soft cartilage in between his eyes and tasted the coppery tang of blood as it streamed down the back of his throat. A punch to the cheek had Reese’s head bouncing off the ice, stars floating in front of his vision.
This was bad.
Two more blocks, one more hit and John was wondering just how long he’d be able to hold out. Going for his gun wasn’t an option; his Sig was somewhere in the bottom of the Zamboni pool in the maintenance room, lost when Provost dunked his head and most of his torso. Reese was about to go for his last-ditch play - the eye strike he’d taught Finch - when Martin suddenly stilled above him.
Reese couldn’t see what was beyond the boards, but he could certainly hear it. It wasn’t loud enough to be a gunshot, but the staccato note was definitely emphatic enough for the sound to roll around the curved ceiling of the ice rink. Provost’s head snapped backwards, his hands flying to his face. His entire body stiffened, all momentum coming to a screeching halt an instant before he crumpled like a puppet to the ice surface.
John lay on his back, chest heaving, as he gasped for air. He titled his head to the side, watching with a bit of a amusement as blood from his nose dripped down into a small puddle near his face. The ice felt good on the bruises; perhaps he’d stay here for just a little bit. A small black disc rolled harmlessly on edge by John’s prone body, leaving a little bloody line on the ice in its wake. Reese’s eyes followed the object as it slid closer to his side, stopping it when it came to rest against his shoulder. He picked it up, flipping it over in his hands. Rubber. Dense. About six ounces. Three inches wide.
Nice. Someone hit Martin Provost in the head with a hockey puck.
A flash of movement caught his sharp eye on the other side of the glass near the door. John stiffened, looking around for anything useable as a weapon.
“Now, I’d better not hear another damn word about Aryans, Belgian attack dogs or ball gags. I saved your ass - again - so I would appreciate a little respect,” Fusco called as he made the doorway, hockey stick still held at his waist in a shooting position.
Reese let a teeny bit of tension bleed from his shoulders as he saw Lionel step on to the ice. “What are you doing here, Detective?” he asked through the fine tremor in his voice, courtesy of the impending adrenaline crash.
Fusco let out a low whistle, cataloging the moment for posterity’s sake. At seeing the normally impervious ex-CIA agent flat on his back with blood streaming from his nose and a couple of new bruises blossoming across his chiseled features, Lionel fought the compulsion to laugh. Flattening his tone and schooling his expression to neutrality, Fusco replied, “Glasses got a little worried when he couldn’t reach you and asked me to check it out. Looks like he right to send in the cavalry,” as he offered John a hand up.
John winced, stuck the palm of his hand on the cold ice surface and rolled to his knees, grasping Lionel’s forearm in the process. Accepting the Kleenex from Fusco, Reese gingerly stood, straightening his spine with as much dignity he could muster as he rubbed unconsciously at sore spots on his elbow and hip. Looking the detective in the eye, he desperately tried to ignore the water dripping off his hair and blood running down his face as he replied, “I had it under control, Lionel.”
This time, the detective actually snorted out loud. “Yeah. That’s why it looks like you’ve been busy having your suit pulled over your head in true hockey fashion before you went a couple with Bob Probert.” Fusco looked down, noting the puddle of water beginning to pool at the ex-op’s feet. Raising an eyebrow, the detective tapped the blade of the hockey stick in front of Reese’s feet and added, “…And why you’re soaked to boot.”
“I was just strategizing,” John said with a sideways glare as he tucked the tails of his white dress shirt back into his pants, cringing at the cold contact against his skin.
Lionel stuck the bottom edge of the hockey stick’s blade into the ice and laid his palm over the butt end. Pillowing his chin on his knuckles, he asked incredulously, “At the bottom of the Zamboni pool? Gross, by the way. Do you know what kind of collection of spit, puke and blood is in that cesspool?”
“No,” John began, straightening his suit jacket into something that might resemble order. “I--,” Reese started to say before he fell silent, face paling as he realized what Fusco was telling him about the Zamboni pool.
Lionel nodded, the beginnings of a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “That’s what I thought. You know, this is the second time I’ve seen you ‘resting’ during a fight. That’s pretty close to losing I think. And by my count, this makes twice now. So what gives?”
“Nothing ‘gives’, Lionel. He had an unfair advantage,” Reese replied as he looked around the arena. His eyes slid down to the prostrate Provost on the ice, John stopping himself just short of kicking the man. That wouldn’t have been very couth, even if the man deserved it.
“Like hell. The ice just evened the score.” Fusco paused, narrowing his eyes as he watched John’s sharp eyes bounce around the rink. “Oh, and if you’re looking for your coat, it’s over by the far blue line. But you might want to grab it quick-like, before it freezes to ice.”
The ex-CIA agent fixed Fusco with a disapproving stare, but the normal piercing gaze lacked its normal weight and intensity. Behind it, Fusco swore he saw a hint of embarrassment with just a tiny touch of…was that thanks?
Fusco’s eyes glinted in the low light. “You’re welcome, by the way,” he said with a wave of the stick towards the still unconscious Provost.
Reese grunted. “Yes, about that. Finch is going to be very disappointed that you’ve killed someone. He frowns on that sort of thing,” John halfheartedly scolded.
The detective threw his head back and laughed. “He’s not dead, Reese. It was just a little snap shot to the head.”
“Snap shot?” Finch’s poorly trained attack dog’s eyebrows climbed his forehead. “Sounds cruel. I like it.”
“No, cruel would have been if I’d wound up and stepped into it. Think of a snapshot like the hockey version of kneecapping someone - it’s supposed to be quick and fast and aimed for a corner of the net, but it’s not the booming, all out laser that’s heading for someone’s head in front of the net,” Fusco replied with a shrug, gently poking Provost with the blade of the hockey stick. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Reese take in a slow breath, wince and reflexively wrap an arm around his sore ribs. “You need a doctor?” the detective asked, real concern descending on his features.
John brought his arm down, flexing his hand into and out of a fist. He squared his shoulders and cringed when his spine gave a loud crack. “No. I’ve had worse.”
“I’m sure you have. But I’m also guessing that this,” Fusco began, waving hand around the arena and then towards Provost, “was a fighting first for you.”
“In a manner of speaking,” Reese said, folding the Kleenex over before he reapplied it to his nose. “I’ve never fought a hockey player on ice before,” he admitted with a wave of his hand.
Lionel shook his head. “No, I think the correct term for a guy like him is ‘enforcer’.”
Reese reciprocated with a blank stare.
Fusco paused and let his eyes wander to the ceiling as he searched for an appropriate metaphor. He found Reese’s perplexed gaze again and told the taller man, “If our merry band of psychopaths were a hockey team, you’d be our enforcer. You know, the guy who beats up anyone who threatens our teammates. Except normally, the enforcers don’t scour the city looking for fights and are a little less…precise than you are. More punching, less shooting.”
Reese craned his neck around to fix Fusco with disapproving stare. “Lionel, did you just call me overkill?”
The detective paused and then nodded emphatically. “Yep. Pretty sure I did. If the shoe fits, Reese…”
“Your closed case rate has doubled since we started working together - you should be thanking me,” the ex-agent insisted through a thin, disapproving line of pursed lips.
Deadpanned, Fusco fired back, “Yeah, and so has my out of pocket expenditures on suits!”
“Your suits are awful, Detective. I’m doing the city a public service.” Shifting, John looked straight over Fusco’s head and shrugged, adding, “Still, I suppose it’s fitting. Cops and referees - both are blind and deaf. You might as well dress like you can’t see.”
Lionel raised an eyebrow, the situation of one-upping Reese making him extraordinary bold. “A joke, Reese? You mean they let you guys have a sense of humor? I thought the CIA lobotomized that part of your brain.”
Reese glared. “Keep pushing, and I’ll show you that I’m also missing the part of my brain that lets me feel empathy for people I’m torturing.”
Fusco held up a hand and ducked is chin, though he couldn’t completely wipe the smirk from his mouth. At John’s stilted movement, Lionel took two steps towards Reese and gave the man a quick nod. “You gonna make it to the bench there, Chief?”
Reese fixed Fusco with a disapproving glare. “I’ll be fine,” he insisted, though the careful movement spoke otherwise.
“Whatever you say,” Fusco replied, grinning, as Reese grabbed the dasher board on the bench. Stepping up behind the ex-CIA agent, Lionel added, “You know, you of all people should appreciate hockey. It’s fast, brutal and unforgiving. Kind of like you.”
Reese’s smooth gait hitched just a teeny bit. He turned his head just enough so Fusco could see his face in profile. Letting just the barest hint of a smile pull at the corner of his mouth, he looked down at the detective and parroted, “’Kind of like me’?”
“Well, yeah. It was meant to be a compliment. Unless, you don’t know how to take those, either?”
“Depends,” John replied, turning his entire body to face the detective.
“On what?”
Reese titled his head down and to the left the way he often did the moment directly preceding his first punch. “Depends on if I’m about to kill you.”
“Okay, you do remember that I just saved your ass here, right?” Lionel half-exclaimed, throwing up his hands. Muttering under his breath, the detective added, “Next time, I’ll just let the bastard beat you to a bloody pulp.”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t grateful, detective. In fact, I think you should teach me.”
“I should teach you? Hockey?” Fusco asked, pointing towards his own chest.
“Hockey,” Reese confirmed. “It sounds…interesting. And Finch does say I need a hobby other than shooting people.”
Fusco nodded, an approving look creeping slowly across his face. He clapped Reese on the shoulder and said, “I hear the Bruins are good. We could take a road trip. I’m sure Lee would love it.”
John shrugged. “Boston?”
“Boston,” Fusco agreed. “But you can’t kneecap anyone. Or start any fights. Or assault the guy that brings the beer to our seats. If I get barred from TD Bank Garden because of you, there will be hell to pay. And I really won’t care if you can kill me sixteen different ways with a paper clip, it’ll be on like Donkey Kong.”
“If someone shoots at me, I’m going to shoot back.” John said, straightening his jacket as he turned to walk away.
Lionel grabbed Reese’s bicep, spinning the taller man around. “Look, for once, can’t you leave your trusty Sig at home and go for something that’s not gonna leave holes in the other guy? It’ll save me a ton of paperwork and a lot of bullshitting.”
Reese bobbed his head back and forth. “It’s worth a shot,” he said, pausing. “After all, I suppose I do owe you.”
Definitely not his best day.
But most certainly not his worst, either.
--FIN--
Disclaimer: Still not mine. The Crossing would have ended a lot differently if it were. No money made; please don’t sue.
Chapter | 1 | 2 | 3 |
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Chapter 3
As it turned out, it hadn't been John Reese's best day.
Despite Finch’s misgivings about his employee’s…enthusiasm during cases that involved children or battered women, even Harold was hard pressed to refute that their newest Number didn’t have an ass-whipping coming to him. Men like Martin Provost, mediocre ice arena manager moonlighting as a (horrible) contract hitman, often made John scratch his head in consternation.
That man had been the fastest sperm? Really?
Unfortunately for the ex-CIA agent, Provost compensated for his lack of brains with sheer muscle. A lot of it, and most definitely aided by a serious abuse of anabolic steroids. Provost had been dumb enough to keep his entire stash of needles and vials in a tool chest in the maintenance room of the rink. When Reese smashed the drawer over Martin’s head, destroying every single item in the process, it only served to enrage the already unstable man further.
From there, all bets were off and the brawl was on. Normally, that wouldn’t have been cause for any kind of concern, but Martin’s combination of muscle, unbridled rage and an ability to punch another person in the face while balancing on a piece of steel an eighth of an inch thick were skills that got Reese’s attention.
Apparently, as John was in the process of discovering, hockey had taught the Montreal native Provost how to fight.
Check that.
Apparently, hockey had taught the Montreal native Provost how to fight on a freshly resurfaced sheet of ice.
The skirmish that started in the maintenance room, one that had already netted Reese a couple of cracked ribs and a quick dunk in the vile slush pit used to empty out the Zamboni, spilled into the player’s benches ringing the rink, then into the penalty boxes (fitting, John thought even though he didn’t really know the first thing about hockey) and finally on to the ice surface itself. The rink was dark, abandoned for the night by even the most die-hard adult league players. The smell of propane spewed from the Zamboni hung in the air and a small layer of fog condensed low against the boards, disrupted only by the obscure shapes of two men as the pair went tumbling and skidding across the flat surface.
Reese resisted the urge to look down, lest he earn himself a punch for his troubles. The sensation under his feet was like nothing John had experienced before. Sure, there was that time in Russia when he’d managed to pick a fight with a mob boss’ group of enforcers on top of a frozen lake, but that had been much different. It was natural ice, pockmarked and full of ridges formed by wind as the surface froze over. Healthy helpings of snow gave him traction and John dispatched his would-be attackers with relative ease.
But this time, Reese’s feet fought to find purchase against the slick, perfectly flat and smooth, meticulously maintained surface. The dress shoes definitely didn’t help, but he couldn’t blame his lack of coordination solely on his choice of footwear. Provost, on the other hand, was seemingly unaffected by the change. His movements were still quick and precise, accurate to a ‘T’ as he reached across and grabbed the lapels of John’s overcoat. Provost grabbed a fistful of fabric and a healthy portion of Reese’s skin, locked out his left arm out and went to town throwing haymakers with his right.
Reese managed to duck the first punch, but the second caught him flush in the mouth. He added ‘dental work’ to the list of things he’d need to do that week as he spat out a chipped portion of his tooth. Linking his hands over Martin’s left arm, John pulled down as hard as he could, trying to break the man’s grip. He spun quickly, shimmying out of his soaked overcoat before he tossed it haphazardly across the rink. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Reese heard it land with a wet ‘plop’ near the blue line.
Provost, unwilling to concede the upper hand in the fight, reached out again, fingers clawing and tugging at John’s suit jacket. Reese felt the immediate temperature change when Martin yanked the expensive black garment clear over his head. A blast of cold air against bare skin followed as Provost ripped John’s white shirt and undershirt from its connection with his pants, pulling both over the ex-agent’s head with near surgical precision. Temporarily blinded, Reese ate a couple of strategically placed knees (John briefly wondered if that was very sportsmanlike in hockey) before he could push his shirt out of the way enough to see what he was doing.
But Reese was nothing if not resilient, hard-headed and incredibly stubborn. Dropping to one knee, John rolled onto his back, cringing as he felt the cold burn of the ice against his skin. He used his shoulders to initiate a half spin, kicking his right leg out as hard as he could. He felt his foot connect with Provost’s meaty leg, but didn’t hear the telltale ‘splat’ of the man’s weight falling to the ice to join him. Instead, all of the air previously stored in his lungs whooshed out like a backdraft, leaving him breathless and gasping when Provost’s knee slammed into his prone chest.
John brought his right hand up to shield his face, squirming and bucking underneath the weight of the much larger and taller man. Reese resisted the urge to roll his eyes as images of the giant Aryan leader he tried to fight when he first met Leon Tao flashed before his eyes. Or were the snippets of memories due to lack of oxygen? Reese was pretty certain that Provost, somewhere during the fight, managed to sink a tattoo-covered forearm underneath his chin and was putting considerable pressure onto his carotid artery. Unconsciousness, if he didn’t do something quickly, would swallow him whole in about fifteen seconds.
When times got tough, the tough fought dirty. Reaching up, Reese took his own advice and went for Provost’s throat, punching the behemoth of a man in the windpipe. The strike didn’t land exactly flush but it was enough to give John a moment to break free. He pulled his legs loose, kicking as hard as he could as he propelled his body backwards, skidding across the ice.
Provost, undeterred, shook his head once, went red (redder) in the face and then launched himself at Reese. He landed on top of the smaller man and began raining down punches with ferocity that John hadn’t seen in a very long time. The ex-op managed to block a few of the strikes, but he couldn’t stop them all. He felt his nose pop when Provost’s fist connected with the soft cartilage in between his eyes and tasted the coppery tang of blood as it streamed down the back of his throat. A punch to the cheek had Reese’s head bouncing off the ice, stars floating in front of his vision.
This was bad.
Two more blocks, one more hit and John was wondering just how long he’d be able to hold out. Going for his gun wasn’t an option; his Sig was somewhere in the bottom of the Zamboni pool in the maintenance room, lost when Provost dunked his head and most of his torso. Reese was about to go for his last-ditch play - the eye strike he’d taught Finch - when Martin suddenly stilled above him.
Reese couldn’t see what was beyond the boards, but he could certainly hear it. It wasn’t loud enough to be a gunshot, but the staccato note was definitely emphatic enough for the sound to roll around the curved ceiling of the ice rink. Provost’s head snapped backwards, his hands flying to his face. His entire body stiffened, all momentum coming to a screeching halt an instant before he crumpled like a puppet to the ice surface.
John lay on his back, chest heaving, as he gasped for air. He titled his head to the side, watching with a bit of a amusement as blood from his nose dripped down into a small puddle near his face. The ice felt good on the bruises; perhaps he’d stay here for just a little bit. A small black disc rolled harmlessly on edge by John’s prone body, leaving a little bloody line on the ice in its wake. Reese’s eyes followed the object as it slid closer to his side, stopping it when it came to rest against his shoulder. He picked it up, flipping it over in his hands. Rubber. Dense. About six ounces. Three inches wide.
Nice. Someone hit Martin Provost in the head with a hockey puck.
A flash of movement caught his sharp eye on the other side of the glass near the door. John stiffened, looking around for anything useable as a weapon.
“Now, I’d better not hear another damn word about Aryans, Belgian attack dogs or ball gags. I saved your ass - again - so I would appreciate a little respect,” Fusco called as he made the doorway, hockey stick still held at his waist in a shooting position.
Reese let a teeny bit of tension bleed from his shoulders as he saw Lionel step on to the ice. “What are you doing here, Detective?” he asked through the fine tremor in his voice, courtesy of the impending adrenaline crash.
Fusco let out a low whistle, cataloging the moment for posterity’s sake. At seeing the normally impervious ex-CIA agent flat on his back with blood streaming from his nose and a couple of new bruises blossoming across his chiseled features, Lionel fought the compulsion to laugh. Flattening his tone and schooling his expression to neutrality, Fusco replied, “Glasses got a little worried when he couldn’t reach you and asked me to check it out. Looks like he right to send in the cavalry,” as he offered John a hand up.
John winced, stuck the palm of his hand on the cold ice surface and rolled to his knees, grasping Lionel’s forearm in the process. Accepting the Kleenex from Fusco, Reese gingerly stood, straightening his spine with as much dignity he could muster as he rubbed unconsciously at sore spots on his elbow and hip. Looking the detective in the eye, he desperately tried to ignore the water dripping off his hair and blood running down his face as he replied, “I had it under control, Lionel.”
This time, the detective actually snorted out loud. “Yeah. That’s why it looks like you’ve been busy having your suit pulled over your head in true hockey fashion before you went a couple with Bob Probert.” Fusco looked down, noting the puddle of water beginning to pool at the ex-op’s feet. Raising an eyebrow, the detective tapped the blade of the hockey stick in front of Reese’s feet and added, “…And why you’re soaked to boot.”
“I was just strategizing,” John said with a sideways glare as he tucked the tails of his white dress shirt back into his pants, cringing at the cold contact against his skin.
Lionel stuck the bottom edge of the hockey stick’s blade into the ice and laid his palm over the butt end. Pillowing his chin on his knuckles, he asked incredulously, “At the bottom of the Zamboni pool? Gross, by the way. Do you know what kind of collection of spit, puke and blood is in that cesspool?”
“No,” John began, straightening his suit jacket into something that might resemble order. “I--,” Reese started to say before he fell silent, face paling as he realized what Fusco was telling him about the Zamboni pool.
Lionel nodded, the beginnings of a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “That’s what I thought. You know, this is the second time I’ve seen you ‘resting’ during a fight. That’s pretty close to losing I think. And by my count, this makes twice now. So what gives?”
“Nothing ‘gives’, Lionel. He had an unfair advantage,” Reese replied as he looked around the arena. His eyes slid down to the prostrate Provost on the ice, John stopping himself just short of kicking the man. That wouldn’t have been very couth, even if the man deserved it.
“Like hell. The ice just evened the score.” Fusco paused, narrowing his eyes as he watched John’s sharp eyes bounce around the rink. “Oh, and if you’re looking for your coat, it’s over by the far blue line. But you might want to grab it quick-like, before it freezes to ice.”
The ex-CIA agent fixed Fusco with a disapproving stare, but the normal piercing gaze lacked its normal weight and intensity. Behind it, Fusco swore he saw a hint of embarrassment with just a tiny touch of…was that thanks?
Fusco’s eyes glinted in the low light. “You’re welcome, by the way,” he said with a wave of the stick towards the still unconscious Provost.
Reese grunted. “Yes, about that. Finch is going to be very disappointed that you’ve killed someone. He frowns on that sort of thing,” John halfheartedly scolded.
The detective threw his head back and laughed. “He’s not dead, Reese. It was just a little snap shot to the head.”
“Snap shot?” Finch’s poorly trained attack dog’s eyebrows climbed his forehead. “Sounds cruel. I like it.”
“No, cruel would have been if I’d wound up and stepped into it. Think of a snapshot like the hockey version of kneecapping someone - it’s supposed to be quick and fast and aimed for a corner of the net, but it’s not the booming, all out laser that’s heading for someone’s head in front of the net,” Fusco replied with a shrug, gently poking Provost with the blade of the hockey stick. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Reese take in a slow breath, wince and reflexively wrap an arm around his sore ribs. “You need a doctor?” the detective asked, real concern descending on his features.
John brought his arm down, flexing his hand into and out of a fist. He squared his shoulders and cringed when his spine gave a loud crack. “No. I’ve had worse.”
“I’m sure you have. But I’m also guessing that this,” Fusco began, waving hand around the arena and then towards Provost, “was a fighting first for you.”
“In a manner of speaking,” Reese said, folding the Kleenex over before he reapplied it to his nose. “I’ve never fought a hockey player on ice before,” he admitted with a wave of his hand.
Lionel shook his head. “No, I think the correct term for a guy like him is ‘enforcer’.”
Reese reciprocated with a blank stare.
Fusco paused and let his eyes wander to the ceiling as he searched for an appropriate metaphor. He found Reese’s perplexed gaze again and told the taller man, “If our merry band of psychopaths were a hockey team, you’d be our enforcer. You know, the guy who beats up anyone who threatens our teammates. Except normally, the enforcers don’t scour the city looking for fights and are a little less…precise than you are. More punching, less shooting.”
Reese craned his neck around to fix Fusco with disapproving stare. “Lionel, did you just call me overkill?”
The detective paused and then nodded emphatically. “Yep. Pretty sure I did. If the shoe fits, Reese…”
“Your closed case rate has doubled since we started working together - you should be thanking me,” the ex-agent insisted through a thin, disapproving line of pursed lips.
Deadpanned, Fusco fired back, “Yeah, and so has my out of pocket expenditures on suits!”
“Your suits are awful, Detective. I’m doing the city a public service.” Shifting, John looked straight over Fusco’s head and shrugged, adding, “Still, I suppose it’s fitting. Cops and referees - both are blind and deaf. You might as well dress like you can’t see.”
Lionel raised an eyebrow, the situation of one-upping Reese making him extraordinary bold. “A joke, Reese? You mean they let you guys have a sense of humor? I thought the CIA lobotomized that part of your brain.”
Reese glared. “Keep pushing, and I’ll show you that I’m also missing the part of my brain that lets me feel empathy for people I’m torturing.”
Fusco held up a hand and ducked is chin, though he couldn’t completely wipe the smirk from his mouth. At John’s stilted movement, Lionel took two steps towards Reese and gave the man a quick nod. “You gonna make it to the bench there, Chief?”
Reese fixed Fusco with a disapproving glare. “I’ll be fine,” he insisted, though the careful movement spoke otherwise.
“Whatever you say,” Fusco replied, grinning, as Reese grabbed the dasher board on the bench. Stepping up behind the ex-CIA agent, Lionel added, “You know, you of all people should appreciate hockey. It’s fast, brutal and unforgiving. Kind of like you.”
Reese’s smooth gait hitched just a teeny bit. He turned his head just enough so Fusco could see his face in profile. Letting just the barest hint of a smile pull at the corner of his mouth, he looked down at the detective and parroted, “’Kind of like me’?”
“Well, yeah. It was meant to be a compliment. Unless, you don’t know how to take those, either?”
“Depends,” John replied, turning his entire body to face the detective.
“On what?”
Reese titled his head down and to the left the way he often did the moment directly preceding his first punch. “Depends on if I’m about to kill you.”
“Okay, you do remember that I just saved your ass here, right?” Lionel half-exclaimed, throwing up his hands. Muttering under his breath, the detective added, “Next time, I’ll just let the bastard beat you to a bloody pulp.”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t grateful, detective. In fact, I think you should teach me.”
“I should teach you? Hockey?” Fusco asked, pointing towards his own chest.
“Hockey,” Reese confirmed. “It sounds…interesting. And Finch does say I need a hobby other than shooting people.”
Fusco nodded, an approving look creeping slowly across his face. He clapped Reese on the shoulder and said, “I hear the Bruins are good. We could take a road trip. I’m sure Lee would love it.”
John shrugged. “Boston?”
“Boston,” Fusco agreed. “But you can’t kneecap anyone. Or start any fights. Or assault the guy that brings the beer to our seats. If I get barred from TD Bank Garden because of you, there will be hell to pay. And I really won’t care if you can kill me sixteen different ways with a paper clip, it’ll be on like Donkey Kong.”
“If someone shoots at me, I’m going to shoot back.” John said, straightening his jacket as he turned to walk away.
Lionel grabbed Reese’s bicep, spinning the taller man around. “Look, for once, can’t you leave your trusty Sig at home and go for something that’s not gonna leave holes in the other guy? It’ll save me a ton of paperwork and a lot of bullshitting.”
Reese bobbed his head back and forth. “It’s worth a shot,” he said, pausing. “After all, I suppose I do owe you.”
Definitely not his best day.
But most certainly not his worst, either.
--FIN--