John Reese didn't plan for his latest mission to end up this way.

In fact, when he had started this morning it seemed the assignment was to be pretty straight forward: protect a young man with some questionable connections to various low-life city trash.

He had been following his Number all day, and it soon became evident that it was a toss as to whether his target would end up as a victim or perpetrator, given the unsavory sort the kid called friends. That drugs were involved was patently clear from the start: his p.o.i. was a pumper…and stupidly, also a user.

Young, under-educated, economically deprived…all factors that could be changed. But there is no cure for stupid, and as the day progressed he knew whatever was going to happen, it would not end well, no matter if he intervened or not.

But intervene he did, when the young man left his customary hard corner to meet with buyers who decided to forgo the pay-for part of the deal and go straight to the take-possession part. The two druggies each pulled a heavy piece out of their respective pockets with obvious plans to eliminate the middle man from the business transaction.

Reese moved into attack mode then and while he made a good faith attempt to keep both souls earth bound, the battle ended with the two thugs flat on the ground, on their way to meet their maker. His Number stood rooted, observing the mayhem, seemingly dumbstruck that his buyers had just attempted to put a permanent end to his part in the deal.

But that frozen state had quickly thawed to expose a well entrenched vice…avarice…as he scooped up the money and the drug packets and stuffed them into his pocket. And then drew a gun on his savior.

Stupid is as stupid does…

"Well thanks, man! Now I can double my money, and you can go down for snuffing these guys!"

The young dealer obviously watched too much TV, somehow confident he could outshoot someone whose gun is already pointed and cocked. Reese carefully aimed for the kid's kneecap and pulled the trigger. And as the younger man went down his shot went wild…on a dumb-luck trajectory straight to the ex-op's thigh.

So here he is, lying in a filthy alley with a hole in his leg, his phone crushed somewhere and quickly becoming an indistinguishable part of the ground litter. And his luck just doesn't seem to be getting any better, because now someone is attempting to finish him off by choking him.

He tries moving his arm to ward off the attacker, but the appendage has become an anvil and refuses to budge. Opening his eyes in an effort to at least see who it is he will be waiting for in hell, armed with his own pitchfork - and surprise, surprise…

Fusco…

So what's his pet detective doing here, besides putting hands on his neck? Oh, right. Checking for a pulse. Well, he's not quite ready for a dirt blanket yet! And with a great deal of effort Reese manages to get the words out.

"Don't worry, Lionel. Still above ground…"

He worries for the seconds of silence following his comment, thinking perhaps the words formed in his brain didn't make it to his mouth. But then finally Fusco responds, "Yeah. I figured. Only the good die young," and Reese wonders briefly at the relief in the cop's voice. But that will have to wait till later; right now he's having trouble just keeping his eyes open.

How long has he been lying here? A few minutes…hours? And as much as he tries to stay in control, his train of thought is fast wandering off the rails…

…

He's never wanted any pets. Not that he dislikes them…after all, he'd had a dog when he was young, one that he treasured above all material things. Scooter was of indeterminate heritage, a Heinz 57 variety, but a perfect companion for a high energy boy growing up on a farm in Puyallup.

And unlike many of his peers, he took his responsibility for the animal very seriously: feeding, bathing, exercising, doing odd jobs to earn money to pay for food, vaccinations, vet bills…

But eventually, he'd had to leave his beloved pet behind, along with his boyhood, and went off to college. And then the army, learning only of his dog's eventual death through one of the infrequent letters from home.

Sorrow was sharp but his grief necessarily abbreviated, forcibly set aside by other more urgent military matters…and over the years the only vestige left of Scooter was the conviction that it really is easier to be alone than to get close and be responsible for another living entity. Reese never had another pet since.

Until now, when it seems he has two…

Though to be fair, neither one of these pets were deliberately acquired. It was more a quest for effectiveness in one and efficiency for the other.

In acquiring the first he was simply adding a source of information to facilitate the performance of his new job, and with the second, well, Bear could protect Finch whenever he wasn't around. It was just a fortunate circumstance that his benefactor bonded with the dog and in the process took over most of the responsibilities of pet ownership.

He accepts that Finch takes care of the dog, as he takes care of Finch, his priority, and despite that years ago resolution not to ever take on such a task again, he views the geeks well being as his obligation. He looks after Finch - not because the genius geek could ever be considered a "pet" - but because he owes the older man, without whose interference the ex-op knows absolutely he'd already be dead.

As for his first acquisition Reese is the responsible one; his employer didn't originally approve the need for the slightly overweight asset - in fact warned him that this pet might end up biting him. Though Finch eventually accepted the cop and now uses Fusco as an auxiliary asset himself, the welfare of that pet is square on Reese's shoulders - which is why he checks in and out of Fusco's life as often as he does.

…

"Any other holes I should know about…other than this one in your leg?" Fusco asks gruffly, running his hands over the taller man's body as Reese surfaces again. He wants to push away those hands and in his mind he does, but it seems his body is simply ignoring commands from Operation Central. He can vaguely hear the detective talking, the words distorted through layers of cotton stuffing, and all he can make out are indecipherable mumbles.

Then Fusco probes under the injured leg, and Reese is jolted suddenly into a painful present on a quick intake of breath. "…a clean through and through," he hears. "Right through the muscle."

Well, that's good, isn't it? Or at least not as bad as the last time he got shot in the leg. And side. And however did his detective find him anyway? Finch probably. Hopefully. Interesting that Fusco didn't take this opportunity to just get rid of his tormentor, but then again, he knew he'd read the chubby cop correctly from the start.

And on that thought he sinks back into the cotton bales…

(To be continued...)