A/N: So this is a sequel to "Two Steps Forward" and it is entirely carolinagirl919's fault. It starts off where the original story left off so it may help to read/skim over that one first so you know what's going on. And I must give a shout-out to wolfmusic218 who is an editing wizard and awesomely encouraging fanfic fiend. :)

"Soulmates aren't the ones who make you happiest, no. They're instead the ones who make you feel the most. Burning edges and scars and stars. Old pains and pangs, captivation and beauty. Strain and shadows and worry and yearning. Sweetness and madness and dreamlike surrender. They hurl you into the abyss. They taste like hope." — Victoria Erickson

It was about 10:45 Thursday night when John made his way toward Joss's front door. The timing was on purpose, early enough that she would still be awake and late enough that Taylor would be holed up in his room for the night.

He had thought about not coming, delay being the most comfortable option considering. But the rational side of him knew it was inevitable. He had done what needed to be done. He felt no regret. And now he had to face the consequences. He'd told her a couple nights ago that he couldn't go through it again. He couldn't lose another woman he cared about by being too late. By not being there. So he'd done it. He'd eliminated the threat to keep her safe.

Letting himself into her apartment, he disarmed the security alarm before setting it once again for the night. The living room was dark as he'd expected, a light from the kitchen providing enough illumination for him to see his way to her bedroom. He hesitated for a moment before opening her door, not knowing if this would be the last time he'd ever be allowed inside. The last time he'd ever be allowed in her place, period. He knew all of that, though, before he did it. He knew the risk he was taking. But it needed to be done.

He turned the doorknob and entered. The light was on and he glanced in her direction, seeing her sitting up in the bed with her tablet. Web surfing or reading, he wasn't sure which. Waiting for him. That he was sure of. "How was your day?" He removed his suit jacket, setting it across the bench at the foot of her bed before loosening his shirt cuffs and unbuttoning his shirt. Initiating small talk was a stalling tactic he was surprised to hear himself employ. He'd had no regrets but now, being in this room with her, he realized just how damn much he was going to miss this—having someone to come home to—if she didn't understand. If she stopped believing in him. In them.

Joss kept her eyes trained on the screen, her heart beginning to pound the moment she heard the alarm being disarmed. She didn't know if he would show up tonight, or if she even wanted him to. Since her attack Monday night, he'd stayed every night at her place, even bringing a few changes of clothes with him last night. It hadn't bothered her much; she liked having him near. But it had signified yet another shift in their relationship that she needed to adjust to after being alone for so long. Now, though? If he'd done what she figured he had, she didn't know if she wanted him so near anymore. She didn't know if she should want him at all. "Not so great."

He glanced at her again before making his way over to the hamper to slip his shirt off and deposit it. He leaned down to remove his shoes and socks knowing it was only a matter of time now. For a moment, he wondered why he was bothering to get undressed if he was only going to be forced to put everything back on once she asked him to leave. Maybe part of him hoped that by being stripped of his suit, his armor, she'd just see him, the man. His back still to her, he unbuckled his belt, removing it before his pants followed. "Bad day?"

She kept her eyes on the words on the screen, having read the same couple of sentences for the past half hour and still not registering what she'd read. Frustrated, she took a deep breath. "There was no arraignment today, John." She finally looked up at him, watching as he set his pants and belt on top of his suit jacket at the foot of her bed. It was time to read him now. She knew he wouldn't lie to her but his nonverbal cues, his eyes in particular, would speak more truth than his words ever could. She watched as he lifted the bulletproof t-shirt over his head and allowed it to join the rest of his clothes. She didn't miss the swallow before he answered.

He'd done it.

"I know."

She powered down the tablet and set it on her nightstand before turning back to him. He stood at the foot of her bed, arms loose at his sides, looking vulnerable in nothing but his underwear. But she knew better. He had been anything but vulnerable earlier today. "They think someone helped him escape. Some tall, skinny guy in a ski mask."

He didn't say anything, letting her find her way to the question she wanted to ask.

"Do you know who did it?"

He felt himself wanting to pace under her scrutiny. She could cut him deep with it but he didn't want to show it. He had done what needed to be done and he refused to allow his resolve to weaken. So that he wouldn't pace or fidget, he walked to the other side of the bed and settled himself underneath the same thin sheet she was under. He felt less on display now, sitting beside her. Next to her. Where he belonged and wanted to stay.

He turned and met her eyes. "I did." He held his breath. Waiting for it. The question he dreaded but knew he'd have to answer. The confession he was about to make. To a cop.

Joss swallowed. Her throat was dry and her heart rate ramped up even more. It was surreal in a terrible, awful, no good, very bad way. The question she had to ask the man who had soaked deeply into every crevice of her life. It felt like deja vu almost. Except there was no federal marshal in his trunk and this time she was too late. "What did you do to him?" She had a difficult time holding his gaze, fearful of his answer and what her reaction would say about her.

"I killed him."

She didn't feel the wind knocked out of her, no punch to her gut. He didn't look regretful, nor cold and heartless. He looked like her John.

And she felt sick to her stomach.

Unable to face him any longer, she shifted and turned off the lamp on her nightstand, settling herself on her side facing away from him. She'd known who he was, what he used to do. And what she hadn't known, she could fill in the blanks. But tonight she had to face it head on. Tonight she was finally acknowledging it: she was sleeping with a killer.

John watched as she turned away from him. She hadn't said a word. She'd given him nothing. He had expected this would go one of two ways: she'd chew him up and spit him out, or just tell him to leave. Instead she'd shunned him, shut him out completely without saying a word while lying painfully within his reach. Unable to stand the silent void, he reached to turn off his bedside lamp.

It hadn't been what he expected; it had been worse.

Carter arrived at the precinct earlier than usual. Tired of lying awake while pretending to be asleep all night, she had gotten up early and decided to leave work a little earlier that afternoon. She'd gotten up after she heard him leave. She doubted he'd slept either, both of them having lain stock-still to convince the other they were asleep. The tension in the dark room made sleep impossible. After he'd turned his light off, she hadn't felt him move, hadn't felt the mattress shift as he made himself comfortable. He'd probably sat up in the bed like a statue all night.

She'd credited his being there at night for the ease she'd felt falling asleep the past couple of nights. Every time she thought about Kovach being in her bedroom, every time she involuntarily wondered how long he'd been there watching her or touching her before she woke up, every time she relived the terror she'd felt, she'd been able to push it back. She'd felt safe and shielded. Because he was there. But those same arms that had brought her immense comfort now had her questioning him. Everything. How could the same man so easily murder and dispose of another human being and then, in spite of everything, kiss her forehead goodbye before he left that morning? Why was she, a damn homicide detective, involved with someone who could do that? How long could she keep compartmentalizing her personal, professional, and "extracurricular" lives?

"Carter? What do you want to do for lunch?" Fusco interrupted her musings.

"Uh….Let's get Kyoto. I'm in a sushi mood." She stood from her desk, gathering her bag and wondering why her partner hadn't said a word about Kovach's "escape" all day. Surely he knew as well as she did that Kovach didn't have friends in the kinds of high places that could arrange an escape for this particular mess he was in. Surely he knew it was John. Maybe he knew a lot more than she did and that was why he was keeping his mouth shut.

They made their way to the restaurant and shared several rolls while talking about work, their kids, and general randomness. Since it was his turn, Fusco paid the tab and they left the restaurant, starting the six-minute walk back to the precinct. Before they got there, however, Fusco stopped along the adjacent park's wrought iron fencing, leaning his forearms atop it. He started to speak but then reached into his jacket pocket to take out his phone. Once she saw him turn it off, she took hers out of her purse and did the same. He wanted to talk and she had a feeling it had everything to do with what they'd been tiptoeing around all day.

Fusco resumed his hunched position against the fence looking out across the small park. "You know they're never gonna find his body."

Carter turned and leaned next to him. "So you know."

He let out a deep breath. "He asked me when that son of a bitch was going to be transported to the courthouse." Fusco figured he'd get his involvement out there in the open. She wasn't going to like it but he could tell all day that she needed to talk. And he knew that she knew he was the only person she could talk to about it.

"You knew what he was going to do and you didn't tell me so I could stop him?"

"Nobody was going to stop him. If it'd been my wife or my kid? I'd've done the same thing."

Carter glanced at him briefly before turning to face forward again. "I'm not his wife. But I am a cop, Fusco. He put this on me. He told me he killed somebody everybody's looking for right now and are never going to find. And now I have to carry this with me on top of everything else I keep secret for him. On top of everything else I've done to protect him. I can overlook certain things when we're trying to save somebody but this….It's murder, Fusco. Because of me."

Fusco nodded, his hands clasped together as his forearms rested on the railing, knowing that what she was feeling above all was guilt. They all protected one another. It was the unspoken code. Because they were saving people. Absolving themselves of past sins or just doing what came naturally in her case. It was work outside of the law. But it was good work. And at the end of the day, it was right. And now she was struggling with this particular new shade of gray. She didn't seem to realize that what Wonderboy did fell under the code; he was protecting her. So it was right.

Fusco softened his voice after several beats had passed. "Carter, Kovach isn't worth it. Some people are just evil pieces of shit. He probably would've gotten out and come after you again.

"Listen, John comes with his issues but this ain't one of 'em. He was protecting you. And trust me, he was doing that before you even really met him." He turned to watch the contemplative look that blanketed her face before resistance returned. Straightening up, he started to walk off to leave her alone with her thoughts but stopped short. "You're not his wife, Joss, and I don't even know how that would work, but don't act like he doesn't love you like one."

The use of her first name and the rest of his words struck her hard. No one had ever verbalized it before. Not Fusco. Not Finch. Not her. Not him.

She'd never told John she loved him. In a way that made absolutely no sense, it kept her heart safe. It was an out she was hanging onto. Their lives were too crazy for it. Love. There were too many secrets. Too many lies. Too much danger and risk. They were just…..together. With no labels. Maybe it was sustainable that way, maybe not. They weren't conventional in any way; they were playing the whole thing by ear. So it gave her an excuse. Him, too, probably. It could be over tomorrow, maybe it would hurt less that way. At least that was what she was telling herself.

She stayed another minute or so before taking her leave of the park and heading back to work.

John arrived early at the library that morning, beating Finch. He hadn't slept and assumed Carter was waiting for him to leave so she could get up without having to deal with him. She hadn't slept either and he knew it was due to him and his actions. That beautiful woman being upset with him bothered him more than she would ever know. He had known it was coming, but her safety trumped her feelings in this case. If the system had done its job in the first place, Kovach would never have been released. He was incorrigible and irredeemable and it was only a matter of time before he killed some innocent woman since he hated them so much. And Joss was surely still at the top of his list after his latest arrest. But John could breathe easier now. That particular threat was gone.

He settled himself at Finch's desk, opening up a web browser to pass the time. After checking his email—it was impossible to do any ordering online without one and Joss had taken to forwarding random things to him on occasion—he found himself checking the local news websites. It appeared the search for the missing Edward Kovach was continuing, only now it seemed authorities weren't sure it was an escape so much as vigilante justice. Kovach had made many enemies, his former wife and recent victim—the unnamed female police detective—not his only victims.

Unnamed female police detective. It angered him. Still. It had been too close a call. Killing Kovach hadn't made the anger dissipate yet. Probably because he was still angry with himself. He hadn't yet forgiven himself for what happened to Jessica and now this. He didn't know how to do this. He was involved with a woman with a dangerous job. And she was linked to his even more dangerous one. He didn't know how to keep her safe without smothering her while still doing his own job. Kovach's actions were a painful reminder of this. It couldn't happen again. He couldn't lose Joss because he wasn't there. He couldn't.

He didn't look up from the computer screen when he heard Finch and Bear enter the room.

"Mr. Reese."

"Finch."

Finch remained unmoving just a few feet into the room. "Early start this morning." Unlike yesterday. He figured his partner would note the significant displeasure in his tone.

Reese shrugged his shoulder. "Just showing some initiative, Finch." He continued browsing online, clicking on a link to the weather. "Do you have a number yet?"

"Yes." Finch hobbled several more steps into the room, pausing next to the desk to set his tea on a coaster. He didn't know when he'd see John today so he made sure to get his own caffeine fix before he arrived. He looked down at his friend, wondering when he'd give up his seat. "The machine did give us someone's number today, a luxury not afforded to Mr. Kovach yesterday."

"What a shame."

Finch eyed him a few seconds longer before turning back toward the bookshelves. A lecture had been on the tip of his tongue. A reminder to the former CIA operative that they were in the business of saving lives, not taking them. John knew all that, though. So he decided to save his breath. Edward Kovach hadn't been business; he had been personal.

Finch sighed to himself as he found the books he needed. Detective Carter surely by now knew what John had done. And she was surely not happy about it. It was what he had feared when they became romantically involved. Something like this. Where the two of them would be at odds, unable to work together, unable to separate their calling from their personal strife. He feared their precarious work being impacted, lives of the people they were helping being affected. Love was a powerful and debilitating thing.

He shook his head to regain focus, deciding to hope for the best. Deciding to give them more credit. Hoping they were able to straighten things out between them without any disastrous consequences.

When he heard Finch reapproaching, Reese vacated his chair, stuck his hands in his front pants pockets, and casually strolled to one of the grimy windows. Waiting for Finch to produce a name to match the number given to them, he let his thoughts wander once again.

He wasn't sure how to fix it. How to make it right again. Because he wasn't sorry. He couldn't tell her he'd made a mistake, that he regretted what he'd done. It would be lying, something he had immense trouble doing to her.

He'd only really loved two women in his life, and he'd let one of them go. He'd never had to fight for one. He didn't know what to do, how not to make matters worse. But he would have to come up with something. He would fight for Joss.

"Coke is better, Carter. It's not as sweet." Fusco walked alongside his partner as they headed out the precinct doors and down the steps. They had finished their shift without incident and had the weekend to look forward to.

Except Joss was dreading it.

"Cherry Coke is better than Cherry Pepsi, Fusco, I'll give you that. Regular Coke is just dull."

"Dull? Next thing I know you'll be telling me you like cats better than dogs."

Carter chuckled. "Well, that depends."

"Yeah? On what…..?" Fusco's voice trailed off as they headed down the sidewalk and saw John fiddling with his cell phone ten feet ahead. Fusco stole a quick glance at his partner before excusing himself. "I'll catch you on Monday, Carter." He proceeded down the sidewalk, nodding once at Reese as he passed.

Carter slowly made her way over to the tall vigilante, not wanting to deal with this, with him, right now. She'd had to endure pitying looks and shoulder squeezes punctuated by We'll catch him's almost all day. No. No, they weren't going to catch him. And, no, she couldn't tell them they were spouting platitudes that were emptier than they knew.

Reese pocketed his phone and turned to face her as she approached. There was no anger written on her face but there was no happiness either. She was regarding him coolly. He nodded back toward his parked car. "Take you home?"

"I drove." She knew what he was really asking. He wanted to talk and she didn't want to just yet.

He nodded. He already knew that. "Can we talk?"

She looked away and shook her head briefly before facing him again. "Is talking gonna bring him back so he can go in front of a judge like he was supposed to?"

He looked at her for several seconds before he answered. "No."

She shrugged her right shoulder and began to move past him. His voice stopped her.

"Will we? Talk?" Ever?

She turned back toward him, looking into his solemn, worried face. His open eyes. She wondered how she would ever get him out of her system. She wondered if it was even possible. She confirmed in that moment that it wasn't. She nodded in answer to his question before continuing on her way.

Later that night she got more confirmation. He'd given her her space for the rest of the day and she'd gone to bed hating that she was missing his comforting presence, slightly unnerved that she was spending her first night alone in her bedroom since it happened. Until she heard her alarm being disarmed and armed once more. Until she heard two distinctive, deep voices for a short while. Taylor must have torn himself away from his video games in his room to take a kitchen or bathroom break and run into him.

He didn't come in, though. And when she left her room the next morning, John was gone.

She had slept peacefully all night.

Carter's heart pounded heavily in her chest as she drove. Like it always did when she got that dreaded call from Finch telling her John was in a situation he was having trouble getting out of. She wondered when mild worry and anxiety had turned into full blown chest pains at the thought of him being in mortal trouble. Insanity is what it was. Every time this happened, she cursed the day she'd met him. Cursed the moment, whenever it was, she became attached to him. She'd had a spouse in the military, a spouse with a dangerous job. She knew about worry. She'd had dangerous jobs herself. She knew about being the subject of worry. But John Worry was on a different plane. The worry he caused her and the worry he showed for her. All of it was nearly crippling and they were both insane for voluntarily running into it headfirst. Violence wasn't going to end either one of them. It was going be a damn stroke.

"It's over there." Fusco pointed in the direction of the Resen building.

"No, it's not. Is it?" She squinted in the darkness.

"Yeah. Look." Fusco indicated the medium-sized plastics warehouse and Carter quickly steered the car in that direction. Finch had lost contact with John but, before the connection was lost, it was clear Reese was outnumbered and low on ammunition. His number had turned on him.

Unsure what they were walking into, as was usually the case with John, Carter tamped down her fear and mentally prepared to walk into hell for him.

She and Fusco quickly exited the car and listened as they rushed forward, guns drawn. It was quiet. In an eerie, horror movie way. She breathed deeply, willing the cop in her to prevail. The cool, collected, personally-detached cop. But it was way too damn quiet. Maybe they'd missed all the fun by mere seconds and he was in there quietly observing the usual results of his own one-man wrecking crew. Maybe he wasn't in the building anymore. Maybe he'd gotten out and was finding his way to a phone to call Finch. Maybe Finch had gotten it wrong and he'd never been here at all. Maybe...She swore to herself, trying to stop her wayward thoughts and concentrate on finding him. She was doing a terrible job of channeling Carter The Cop. But this was John. He had to be alright. He had to.

They moved swiftly, finding their way to the nearest entrance. Testing the door and finding the lock destroyed, Fusco signaled he would go in first. He opened the door and she immediately followed. The low level, after hours lighting gave them a slight visual advantage as they fell into their second-nature search routine. Navigating past two offices, they stepped out into an array of ceiling-high shelvings and what looked like the end result of firearm warfare.

John had definitely been here.

Stepping further, the eerie quiet soon gave way to the sound of faint groans from fallen bodies, the visual of boxes and plastics riddled with bulletholes, and the acrid smell of gunpowder. Joss swallowed past the dryness in her throat as she quickly but carefully eyed each body she passed. She was beginning to struggle to keep it together. To remember to breathe past the brutal pounding of her heart in her chest. Unsure if they were the only fully conscious people in the building, she announced their presence in their official capacity. "NYPD! Anybody else in here, come out with your hands where I can see 'em!" She barked the order for John's benefit more than anything else. If he was still here….somewhere….he'd know help had arrived. So where the hell is he?

She nodded at Fusco, indicating that they should split up and search through the partially destroyed warehouse for any more gunmen or women. And John.

As she and Fusco continued to call out and clear the building, her panic level skyrocketed. He had been here but where was he now? Finch would have called by now if he had contacted him. Dammit, John! She turned to her left as she approached a dead end walkway, hearing a sound coming from that direction. She took her flashlight out and pointed it. At least two heavy, metal shelvings, countless boxes, busted fluorescent lights, and large pieces of what looked like drywall were piled at the end. And sticking out from the wreckage were feet. That were moving. She yelled for her partner. "Fusco!" She put her flashlight back into her jacket pocket, placed her gun back into its holster, and began to remove what she could from the pile, hoping and praying it was him and not one of the assholes who had been trying to kill him.

She looked up once Fusco had found her. "Clear?"

"Besides all the bodies we passed, I think so." Thinking so wasn't knowing and wasn't good enough normally, but they weren't exactly here on official business so he hesitated to holster his weapon.

"Somebody's under here."

Deciding to just hope for the best like he always did when Wonderboy was involved, he slipped his gun into his holster and helped his partner, keeping one eye on his task and the other on the exit.

Both of them breaking a serious sweat, they struggled with the racks. Finally clearing one, Joss had to fight to keep her tears at bay. Thank you, God. There was a man underneath the debris. White shirt, dark pants, dark jacket. John. "John. You okay? Hang on."

"I didn't need a workout today, Wonderboy. I really didn't." Fusco huffed in annoyance. And begrudging relief.

"John? Can you hear me?" They cleared more broken bulb glass and cardboard before shifting to remove the last rack from his body. Once they'd cleared the last of the obstacles, Joss knelt beside him and dragged her hand down the side of his face. She watched the grimace blanket his features as his head moved slowly from side to side.

Knowing Superman would probably be up in a flash, Fusco rose to his feet, removed his gun from his holster again, and strode to the end of the walkway to keep watch in case any of their friends woke up.

Carter continued to stroke his face, worry still furrowing her brow. She just wasn't used to this. In all the time they'd worked together, she'd never seen him down and staying down for any length of time. She was sure it had happened before; she'd just never been actual witness to it. She took her hand from his face and gently probed several places along his torso. "Can you move? Do you think something's broken?" She tried her best to look and feel for anything protruding or bleeding. She watched as he finally opened his eyes and looked at her. He was in physical pain, she could tell. But the other look hurt her heart. It was accusing and fleeting but she got the message loud and clear. You haven't seen or talked to me in a week and a half, why are you here now? Her heart sank but, still, she felt her defenses rising. She wasn't the one who had murdered someone. And confessed to a homicide detective who loved her too much to do anything about it. To do what he was sworn to do.

She helped him as he struggled to sit up.

"I'm fine. Give me a minute."

No sarcasm, no snark, no smartass retort. It bothered her. And she couldn't tell if he wasn't being himself because of the pain or because of her. After literally a minute, she rose with him as he got to his feet.

"Thanks."

Fusco looked back at them. "Come on. Let's get the hell outta here."

Carter hovered beside Reese, resisting the temptation to wrap her arm around his waist to steady him. He seemed to be doing a good job of it himself but she wasn't sure how much of that was for her benefit. She wasn't sure just how hurt he was.

Finally making their way back outside, Carter looked up at Reese. "Did you drive here?"

"Car's a street over."

"Think you can walk to it?"

"I'm fine," he repeated.

Ignoring him, she turned to her partner. "I'm gonna take him home, or wherever he's trying to go." She reached into her pocket and tossed him her cruiser's keys.

Catching them, Fusco sighed. "I'll call this mess in. You owe me two."

She nodded.

Fusco addressed Reese, "Is your person of interest still in there?" He watched as the weary vigilante simply nodded.

Without a word—Joss was surprised he didn't protest about her taking him home—John turned and headed toward where she assumed he'd left his vehicle. They had only taken a few steps before he asked for her phone. "I need to call Finch." Handing him the phone from her back pocket, she stopped when she heard Fusco call her name and jog over to them with her bag.

"You probably need this."

"Thanks." She didn't miss the good luck look on his face before he turned to leave. Accepting the offered sentiment, she moved the few feet to catch up with John who had just gotten in touch with Finch.

Five minutes later, John rested his head against the headrest with his eyes closed as Carter drove. He noticed she was taking him to his place instead of hers, even though she knew where he'd been sleeping for the past eleven nights. Though nothing was broken, his body ached like hell and the open wounds he knew were covering his back annoyed with the unrelenting burning sensation. He knew it was negatively contributing to his mood, rousing his anger at her.

It had been twelve days since he'd seen her face, and they had barely spoken in that time. Over the phone. About cases. But now that she was here, now that she was close enough to touch but he couldn't, he felt angry.

He missed her.

He missed her smile, her warmth. He missed annoying her, not-at-all-innocently flirting with her, working with her. Her sharpness, her intellect. Her company. All of his days felt empty. There was a return of the hollowness that only the job and Finch were keeping from swallowing him up. Why couldn't she understand what he'd had to do? She knew he wasn't a boy scout when they'd started this. That he lived by a certain code. That he couldn't handle failing to protect her, especially after his previous loss. Why couldn't she understand that he needed her?

He sighed deeply to himself, pushing the anger from his thoughts. Just like she knew who and what he was when they got together, he knew who and what she was. A cop. Someone who knew the law front to back. A woman with a strong desire to help people who struggled almost daily balancing that desire with enforcing an unyielding law. A woman he kept pulling down that slippery slope of being judge, jury, and executioner.

A woman to whom he'd confessed to a premeditated murder.

He had to be patient. He came with a slew of issues and oversized baggage. And she still gave him a chance, still wanted him. It was easy loving her. She challenged him in all the good ways. The way he challenged her was mostly detrimental. It was anything but easy loving him. He had to show more patience. He had to give her what she needed, whatever it was.

He was startled out of his thoughts by her stern voice.

"Are you sure you don't need to see one of Finch's doctors?"

He turned to look at her. And this time, when he spoke, he softened his tone. "I'm sure."

She took her eyes from the road momentarily to look at him, wanting a straight answer. "Are you hurt, John? Just tell me."

He watched the concern crease her brow as oncoming lights illuminated her face. He missed her so damn much. "A little." Seeing she was happy with his concession, he faced forward again and closed his eyes, remaining that way until they reached his apartment.

Letting her into his loft, John flipped the switch and the place flooded with light. She noticed the blinds were already down and assumed he hadn't been home at all that day. At a minimum. Setting her purse on the floor just inside his door and removing her suit jacket to place on the coat rack, she walked further into the apartment. She wanted to take a look at his back, having finally noticed, as she followed behind him in his building's well-lit hallways, that his suit and shirt were torn and he was bleeding. "I can probably see better in the kitchen, John. Take your shirt off." She figured he would obey her and left him to go find one of the first aid kits in his bathroom.

Returning to the kitchen, she saw him seated on a bar stool unbuttoning his destroyed shirt, the similarly destroyed black jacket laid across the adjacent stool. She went to stand behind him and set the kit on the countertop. After he'd taken his shirt off, she examined his back and breathed a sigh of relief. It was a bloody mess but he probably wouldn't need stitches. A few long gashes needed to be cleaned and bandaged and he would be good to go. "It doesn't look bad. How's your head?" He'd been barely conscious when they found him and she worried about concussion.

"Hurts."

Leaving his side, she walked over to his well-stocked linen closet to gather several hand towels before returning to the kitchen. She set them beside the sink and washed her hands. Grabbing a glass from the cupboard, she filled it with ice and water from the refrigerator door dispensers and set it in front of him. She watched as he thanked her and brought it to his lips before retrieving a couple of the towels she'd left by the sink and running them under the faucet so she could begin to clean his wounds.

Returning to his side once again, she methodically went to work.

After several minutes, his low voice disturbed the quiet, uncomfortable air in the kitchen. "Where's Taylor?"

"Home. He knows I'm gonna be late getting in."

"Tell him I'm sorry."

"He's used to me getting in late. Unfortunately." The parental guilt stabbed at her again but she shook it off. That was for another time. But she began to wonder what her son was thinking about all of this. If it was making him uncomfortable. He had to know something was going on as John was obviously sleeping on their couch instead of in her bedroom when he came over. About a month into their relationship, she'd given up on sneaking him in and out of the apartment. It was getting ridiculous considering Taylor was grown enough to have figured out they were having sex. But she was his mother so she never brought any attention to it, and they kept it as quiet as they could behind her closed door. Out of sight, hopefully out of his mind.

She placed a large adhesive bandage over the biggest wound, wondering what kind of sleep John had been getting on that couch. She'd been feeling bad about it and wanted to tell him to sleep in his own bed, but that would have required actually talking to him. And she hadn't wanted to yet. "You don't have to come over tonight. You can stay home. Rest."

He was silent for several seconds and she wondered if he'd even heard her. Surely he knew that she knew he had been sleeping on her couch every night. She ran her finger firmly along the edges of the bandage, saw him shrug his left shoulder slowly.

"I keep my clothes here, Joss…...Home is where you and Taylor are."

She swallowed, her finger faltering before she pulled it away. She tore open another gauze pad to cover the smaller wound. He wasn't going to make tonight easy for them. He wasn't going to stop the way he drew her to him, gave her just enough to keep her coming back for more. For more of him emotionally and physically. She was trying to resist, trying to dig her heels in. But he was stronger than she was.

Wanting to steer the conversation elsewhere, she thought back to the Rikers conversation they'd had under the guise of an interrogation. About what she'd learned about his mother and father. "There's really no one else? Back home? No cousins, no old family friends?" She placed the gauze bandage over the last exposed wound, once again using her fingers to press the adhesive against his skin.

"There's you, Taylor, Finch…." He shrugged his shoulder again, deciding to add Lionel to the short list. "Fusco, I guess." He turned his head slightly toward her where she stood behind his bare back. "I'll do whatever I have to to protect all of you." He let that hang a bit for her benefit. For her understanding. He faced forward again. "Because you're it. You're all I have."

She took her hands away from his body. Nearly a full minute passed. She felt for him. Her heart ached for him. But she still couldn't get past it. And she couldn't keep the words from leaving her mouth. She didn't want to. "It was cold-blooded murder, John. I don't want to know how you did it but it was premeditated. And it was murder. I mean, are you….He didn't hurt me. I'm fine. Are you gonna kill anybody who looks at me funny? Where do you draw the line?"

He stood up from the stool then, turning to face her. He felt hurt suddenly. And angry. "Do you think I would hurt you? Taylor? Are you scared of me?"

She saw it there. The hurt. And she felt her anger rising. Anger at herself for not being appalled by him, when any normal person would be. For not being scared of a man who killed people in revenge. "I should be."

"Are you?" He asked again. He needed to know.

"I should be."

They stood silently, neither making a show of backing down even though the question was answered. Handily.

Satisfied he was going to be fine and annoyed that he was probing her thoughts when she hadn't finished probing them herself, she acquiesced and turned from him, heading toward his bathroom once more. His medicine cabinet to be specific, where she knew he kept a stash of drugs as illegally obtained as the weapons stash in his closet. She would try to get him to take some painkillers so he could rest easy and face whatever his job was going to pummel him with tomorrow.

Opening the medicine cabinet door, it didn't take long for her to find something sufficient. Vicodin would do. She sensed his approach before she closed the cabinet door and turned to face him where he stood just inside the bathroom door entrance. "You should take something so you can get some decent sleep." When he didn't make a move, she turned back toward the sink, opening the pill bottle and shaking a pill out before turning on the faucet to fill the small plastic cup perched on his sink with water. She walked over to him, ignoring the heat radiating from him, ignoring the tension between them magnified by his large frame in the small confines of his bathroom. She held the cup and pill out to him and followed his eyes as they looked at her hands. There was hesitation in them. He didn't want to take them. Under normal circumstances he would, his case—for better or worse—having been wrapped up tonight and his body needing the recharge before the next assignment wore him down. She watched him, knowing he was torn between doing what he wanted—not taking them—and doing what she wanted him to do. Not wanting to reinforce the strain already present between them.

Suddenly, she realized why he didn't want to incapacitate himself in any way. And some of her passive anger towards him was snatched from her firm grasp. "You're gonna follow me home, aren't you?"

"I don't want you to be alone."

Her expression softened. Without her permission. "I'll be fine. I told you. You don't have to worry about me. I'm sleeping okay. You're the one who needs to get some real rest." She hoped he wouldn't bring up the fact that he could get that real rest in her bed. With her. She already knew she wouldn't be strong enough to turn him down.

He stared at her for a moment before bringing his hand up to her cheek. It had been too long since he'd felt the softness of her skin beneath the roughness of his. Her proximity, the softening of her eyes, the worry she expressed for him, they all conspired to get him to breach the wall between them. To touch her. "You'd say that even if you weren't."

"Like you do." She knew she should remove his hand from her face and leave. He was too close and there was too much tension building and that look in his eyes meant he was going to kiss her and she was still reeling from what the same gentle hand on her face had done. Because of her. How she, a cop, was doing everything but enforcing the law and apprehending a confessed murderer. It was wrong. It was some form of hypocritical. She still struggled to reconcile it.

In the end, though, she'd wasted too much time thinking. He made his move, and even though the hand on her face was gentle and his descent toward her lips was slow, his lips and hers together were anything but. She was taken aback at how strong he came on, taking the cup from her hand with his free one and walking her backward so he could set it on the sink. He took the forgotten pill from her other hand and dropped it. She heard it roll into the bowl and likely lodge itself in the slightly open drain. Then both hands were on her face, tongue hotly slipping alongside hers as her back hit the wall.

She knew he would never hurt her, but was she wrong? Was he trying to kill her now? Take all the breath in her body? As the wetness pooled between her legs, she was assaulted with everything he was trying to tell her. He missed her. He always, always wanted her. He would always fiercely protect her. He wanted her understanding. He wanted her to know why he did it and why he would do it again and to accept it. Him.

He made his argument. Poured every important bullet point into his kiss. Dotted his i's. Crossed his t's. When he heard her gasping, grasping for any air she could get under his relentless closing argument, he abruptly released her mouth, placing his hands at her waist, separating her hot body from his straining erection. Seconds passed as their chests heaved and their foreheads touched.

His voice was low, a slight rasp around the edges. He fought to keep it steady. "Tell me...what you need me to do. How to make it better." The words felt weird, funny, rolling off his tongue. It had been over ten years since his last real relationship, and it had been a brief, six-month whirlwind. He'd never been on this side before. On the outside. Ready to beg to get back in. He didn't like the taste of it in his mouth. But, then, no one did. It was for Joss, though. He'd do many, many things for Joss.

She was weak in the knees, shaky, and feeling like she was in need of CPR. Her mind whirled. He'd mercilessly taken all of her air, yet she wanted him inside her. He'd murdered a man who tried to hurt her yet, he saved lives almost every day. He fought, shot, and maimed, yet he could be as gentle as a lamb with her. He was a vigilante and she was a cop—with a damn law degree.

He was broken inside but he was all the man she needed.

Too much. She was overwhelmed. Confused, unsettled, and overheated. She shook her head briefly against his. "I don't know…..nothing….nothing." Her voice was as weak as her resolve. There wasn't anything for him to do. He couldn't bring Kovach back from the dead so they could start this entire nightmare over and go for different results. It was on her. What he did wasn't wrong in his eyes; it was easy and right and simple and he would never change his mind. She was the one with the issue. Even though she knew what he was when she started this with him.

He didn't know how to take that answer. Doing nothing for the past week and a half had driven him crazy. Not giving Jessica what she needed, doing nothing, had driven her into the arms of her murderer. He really didn't know how to do this. How not to make the wrong move. Joss obviously wanted space from him but how much space was too much? If he left her alone too long, would she think he stopped caring?

He inhaled deeply, his breathing finally evening out, and lifted his forehead from hers, looking her steadily in the eye. "You know I wouldn't hurt you. You know that, right?" Yes, he was a violent man. Had been involved in violent activities since reaching adulthood. Hadn't known a time without it since. But it was never without reason. The government's or his own. And, now, never without good reason.

Her voice weakened with emotion once more. "I know, John. I'm not scared of you." She was scared, though. Scared of her feelings for him. Scared of what she was becoming because of them. She'd arrested a man for killing his wife's murderer before, not wanting to but knowing the law. Knowing her job. But now?

She watched him relax a bit. Watched as his eyes took on that open, vulnerable quality. It was the same look he'd had when they started this rollercoaster of a relationship. When he confessed his feelings for her. When he'd opened up and changed her life. No. Her stomach clenched. She didn't want him to. She didn't want him to go there. She didn't want him to say it. She pushed at his chest and escaped his grasp. "I have to go. Get some rest." She fled.

Alone, John stared at the ghost of her fleeting presence in the doorway. His eyes never changed. Quietly, he told her.

"I love you."