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FIC: Date Night (POI)
Date Night
[AO3]
Spoilers for 2x08 through 2x10. Many thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
inmyriadbits for the beta, and for hooking me on this show in the first place. ♥
Carter: Do you listen to all of my conversations?
Reese: More or less.
“Mr. Reese?”
John straightened up from the block of cheese he was cutting. “Harold? Is there another number?” He’d forgotten to take his earpiece out, again, but Harold didn’t usually call him this late - for some reason, the numbers tended to come in the morning. Another mystery of the Machine.
“Not as such, no,” Harold said, never one to use a single syllable when several would do. John smiled a little down at his cheese. “I was cleaning up some cell tracking data from our misadventure with the Drakes, and noticed Detective Carter hasn’t gone home yet this evening. She usually checks on Taylor if she’s going to be working late, a text at the very least, but tonight - nothing. Did she mention any plans to you?”
John frowned, feeling a twinge of concern despite himself. Carter was tough and capable, but if they’d missed one of the assassins, or their associates wanted revenge.... “No, she didn’t say anything. Where is she now?”
“Driving. Her car just turned south off Broadway at Bowling Green.”
Maybe she was headed for the Staten Island Ferry. “Do you have audio from her phone?”
“Just car sounds and the police dispatch. She was humming a while ago.”
Humming was a good sign, surely. John considered the evidence for a moment, then said slowly, “You know, Finch, Carter can take care of herself. Maybe--”
Finch interrupted. “She’s stopped! Her car’s parked on Stone, between Whitehall and Broad. Hmmm. It’s...valet parking, for a restaurant called Stampiano. Traditional Italian food, good reviews -- bit out of our friend’s price range, actually.”
“Could she be meeting a CI?”
“Possibly, but I don’t think-- Hang on, she’s talking to someone. I’ll patch you in.”
Carter’s warm voice, backed by street noise and faint violin music, came over his earpiece. “-for inviting me. This looks...nice.”
A vaguely familiar man’s voice said, “I see that look on your face, Carter. Trust me, this place does an amazing lasagna. No rabbit food, I promise. And I’m paying, remember?”
Finch said hesitantly, “It sounds like Detective Carter is on a date.”
“That’s odd, though,” John said, pushing the cutting board away from him. He leaned back against the counter and started flipping the knife thoughtfully in his hand. “She just told me that she didn’t have time for dating. Didn’t sound like she was interested in making time, either. Can you identify the guy she’s with?”
Carter was saying, “Well, you asked me to dinner because I owed you a favor. Shouldn’t I be paying?”
“I’m an old-fashioned guy, Carter. Indulge me.”
Owed him a favor, and that voice.... The penny dropped. “Finch, she took a call during our stakeout on the Drakes - the tip about Santiago. I think it’s the same man. Can you trace that number?”
“One moment....” There was a muffled flurry of typing, and then Harold said, “Got it! The phone belongs to one Cal Beecher, a detective out of the 55th Precinct. Used to work undercover for the Narcotics Division - several commendations for large busts, that sort of thing.”
Narcotics busts - that was a dirty business, one with a lot of opportunities for temptation. Especially undercover. Even good cops could get in a bad way if their act got too real: addiction, blackmail, murder.... John knew how easy it was to pretend to be a monster, and come out the other side as the real thing. John gnawed at his lip. “Any signs that he’s HR? Or a dirty cop?”
Harold hummed distractedly. “Analyzing his financials now. He spends more on luxuries than he should -- that’s a very nice Canali suit for his salary -- but spending matches income. I’m not showing any irregularities or hidden accounts....some credit card debt, but well under control.” Harold’s voice went very dry. “He has a standing order to send flowers to his mother on the first Sunday of every month.”
“Awww,” John deadpanned. He set the knife back on the counter, relaxing. Even bad guys loved their mothers, but they weren’t usually that thoughtful. And Carter was a good judge of character -- present eavesdropping company excluded.
Skeptically, Harold agreed. “I think this is exactly what it appears to be: a date between two colleagues. Perhaps we’ve been a bit over-vigilant.”
John smirked as a thought occurred to him, and he reached for the microwave.
Halfway through the firewall around Cal Beecher’s personal computer (respectable security software for a cop, but hardly a challenge to his equipment), Harold paused in his typing.
“Mr. Reese, what is that sound?”
“I’m making popcorn,” John said, like it was obvious.
Harold pursed his lips. “That’s hardly appropriate, Mr. Reese.”
“Oh, c’mon, Harold,” John said, a note of mischief in his voice. Harold remembered sardonically how he’d told John I know exactly everything about you, back at the beginning of their arrangement. Factually, biographically, his statement had been accurate -- but how wrong he’d been. John’s sense of humor, his compassion, and his gentleness had been subsumed by the violence of his work for so long that Harold had overlooked them in his research.
Never had he been more glad to be in error.
John continued, “We’re not going to stop now. And I like a little buttered popcorn to go with my evening’s entertainment. I’m an old-fashioned guy.”
Harold bit back a smile at John’s faintly mocking repeat of Beecher’s line from earlier. “Very well, Mr. Reese. Though I’m not sure Detective Carter would enjoy your appellation for her social life.”
“What social life?”
“Are they still talking shop?”
“They’re both detectives, John; it’s only natural.”
“Still,” John said grumpily. “It’s bad date etiquette.” Or it had been. He hadn’t been on a real date in-- well, since Jessica. Unless you counted eating in public with your partner as cover, which he and Kara had done a lot, but they’d always talked shop.
There had been that date with Maxine Angelis....
Maybe he should concede his lack of knowledge on this one.
“Ordering dessert. That’s a good sign.”
“This menu is sadly lacking in dessert options, John. I’m not even eating there and I’m disappointed.”
“Well, Harold, you should inform the management.”
Harold stopped typing midway through his Yelp review, and pursed his lips. “Hardly, Mr. Reese.” He hesitated, then posted it anyway. Social networking sites were a valuable channel for providing business feedback.
After all, he’d designed them that way.
“No goodnight kiss? There’s old-fashioned, and then there’s just stupid.”
Harold agreed, sounding indignant. “Yes, Detective Carter was extremely charming by any objective standard, and her dress is....” He trailed off, apparently realizing John couldn’t see the video. “I’ll send you a capture from the security feed. But the point remains--”
“Shhh!” John said. “Carter’s talking.”
“Not so fast, Detective. I think we have another matter to discuss.” There was a rustle of fabric, and some muffled sounds. John’s phone pinged on the counter, and he opened the text from Finch: an image of Carter kissing a tall, dark man on the steps of her brownstone. She was wearing a knockout purple dress that he’d never seen before, and had her hand fisted in the man’s sharply cut lapel.
Harold said wryly, “It appears Detective Carter took matters into her own hands.”
John let out a hah! of satisfaction. “She does like to get her man.”
“As you have excellent reason to know.” John could practically hear Harold rolling his eyes.
“She never kissed me,” John said innocently.
“Right. She just arrested you.”
“Only the once.”
“And in the interest of keeping it that way--” Harold tapped at his keyboard, and the faint sounds from Carter’s feed cut off abruptly.
“Well, that went well,” John said brightly. “Not a bad way to spend a Friday night.”
“Oh!” Harold said suddenly. “Which reminds me: your dog needs a bath, and tomorrow is the day you agreed to do it. It’s your turn to dry.”
Reese made a face. It was always his turn to dry - probably because he kept finding ways out of it. But unless they got a number in the morning, he’d have no excuse.
“I guess I better get a good night’s sleep, then,” he said, rubbing a finger over his ear, feeling oddly guilty for hoping to get a number. But really, it wasn’t like he was wishing someone would get killed -- he’d save them.
It was more than just getting out of Bear-drying duty. Working things out with Harold, having his voice in John’s ear: it grounded him. He looked forward to it.
Even off the job, apparently.
“We should do this again sometime,” he said casually.
To his surprise, Harold said, “I’ll set up a program to track when Carter and Beecher’s phones are in the same location,” then added dryly, “Will you be making popcorn again?”
John smirked. “I’ll even share.”
Harold snorted in amusement. “Good night, Mr. Reese.”
“Sleep well, Harold,” John said.
He pulled out his earpiece, and went to bed still smiling.
Finch: You’re in a good mood, Mr. Reese.
Reese: I am. I woke up this morning and felt -- it took me awhile to put my finger on it, but I felt... happy. Must be this job.
[AO3]
Spoilers for 2x08 through 2x10. Many thanks to
inmyriadbits for the beta, and for hooking me on this show in the first place. ♥Carter: Do you listen to all of my conversations?
Reese: More or less.
“Mr. Reese?”
John straightened up from the block of cheese he was cutting. “Harold? Is there another number?” He’d forgotten to take his earpiece out, again, but Harold didn’t usually call him this late - for some reason, the numbers tended to come in the morning. Another mystery of the Machine.
“Not as such, no,” Harold said, never one to use a single syllable when several would do. John smiled a little down at his cheese. “I was cleaning up some cell tracking data from our misadventure with the Drakes, and noticed Detective Carter hasn’t gone home yet this evening. She usually checks on Taylor if she’s going to be working late, a text at the very least, but tonight - nothing. Did she mention any plans to you?”
John frowned, feeling a twinge of concern despite himself. Carter was tough and capable, but if they’d missed one of the assassins, or their associates wanted revenge.... “No, she didn’t say anything. Where is she now?”
“Driving. Her car just turned south off Broadway at Bowling Green.”
Maybe she was headed for the Staten Island Ferry. “Do you have audio from her phone?”
“Just car sounds and the police dispatch. She was humming a while ago.”
Humming was a good sign, surely. John considered the evidence for a moment, then said slowly, “You know, Finch, Carter can take care of herself. Maybe--”
Finch interrupted. “She’s stopped! Her car’s parked on Stone, between Whitehall and Broad. Hmmm. It’s...valet parking, for a restaurant called Stampiano. Traditional Italian food, good reviews -- bit out of our friend’s price range, actually.”
“Could she be meeting a CI?”
“Possibly, but I don’t think-- Hang on, she’s talking to someone. I’ll patch you in.”
Carter’s warm voice, backed by street noise and faint violin music, came over his earpiece. “-for inviting me. This looks...nice.”
A vaguely familiar man’s voice said, “I see that look on your face, Carter. Trust me, this place does an amazing lasagna. No rabbit food, I promise. And I’m paying, remember?”
Finch said hesitantly, “It sounds like Detective Carter is on a date.”
“That’s odd, though,” John said, pushing the cutting board away from him. He leaned back against the counter and started flipping the knife thoughtfully in his hand. “She just told me that she didn’t have time for dating. Didn’t sound like she was interested in making time, either. Can you identify the guy she’s with?”
Carter was saying, “Well, you asked me to dinner because I owed you a favor. Shouldn’t I be paying?”
“I’m an old-fashioned guy, Carter. Indulge me.”
Owed him a favor, and that voice.... The penny dropped. “Finch, she took a call during our stakeout on the Drakes - the tip about Santiago. I think it’s the same man. Can you trace that number?”
“One moment....” There was a muffled flurry of typing, and then Harold said, “Got it! The phone belongs to one Cal Beecher, a detective out of the 55th Precinct. Used to work undercover for the Narcotics Division - several commendations for large busts, that sort of thing.”
Narcotics busts - that was a dirty business, one with a lot of opportunities for temptation. Especially undercover. Even good cops could get in a bad way if their act got too real: addiction, blackmail, murder.... John knew how easy it was to pretend to be a monster, and come out the other side as the real thing. John gnawed at his lip. “Any signs that he’s HR? Or a dirty cop?”
Harold hummed distractedly. “Analyzing his financials now. He spends more on luxuries than he should -- that’s a very nice Canali suit for his salary -- but spending matches income. I’m not showing any irregularities or hidden accounts....some credit card debt, but well under control.” Harold’s voice went very dry. “He has a standing order to send flowers to his mother on the first Sunday of every month.”
“Awww,” John deadpanned. He set the knife back on the counter, relaxing. Even bad guys loved their mothers, but they weren’t usually that thoughtful. And Carter was a good judge of character -- present eavesdropping company excluded.
Skeptically, Harold agreed. “I think this is exactly what it appears to be: a date between two colleagues. Perhaps we’ve been a bit over-vigilant.”
John smirked as a thought occurred to him, and he reached for the microwave.
Halfway through the firewall around Cal Beecher’s personal computer (respectable security software for a cop, but hardly a challenge to his equipment), Harold paused in his typing.
“Mr. Reese, what is that sound?”
“I’m making popcorn,” John said, like it was obvious.
Harold pursed his lips. “That’s hardly appropriate, Mr. Reese.”
“Oh, c’mon, Harold,” John said, a note of mischief in his voice. Harold remembered sardonically how he’d told John I know exactly everything about you, back at the beginning of their arrangement. Factually, biographically, his statement had been accurate -- but how wrong he’d been. John’s sense of humor, his compassion, and his gentleness had been subsumed by the violence of his work for so long that Harold had overlooked them in his research.
Never had he been more glad to be in error.
John continued, “We’re not going to stop now. And I like a little buttered popcorn to go with my evening’s entertainment. I’m an old-fashioned guy.”
Harold bit back a smile at John’s faintly mocking repeat of Beecher’s line from earlier. “Very well, Mr. Reese. Though I’m not sure Detective Carter would enjoy your appellation for her social life.”
“What social life?”
“Are they still talking shop?”
“They’re both detectives, John; it’s only natural.”
“Still,” John said grumpily. “It’s bad date etiquette.” Or it had been. He hadn’t been on a real date in-- well, since Jessica. Unless you counted eating in public with your partner as cover, which he and Kara had done a lot, but they’d always talked shop.
There had been that date with Maxine Angelis....
Maybe he should concede his lack of knowledge on this one.
“Ordering dessert. That’s a good sign.”
“This menu is sadly lacking in dessert options, John. I’m not even eating there and I’m disappointed.”
“Well, Harold, you should inform the management.”
Harold stopped typing midway through his Yelp review, and pursed his lips. “Hardly, Mr. Reese.” He hesitated, then posted it anyway. Social networking sites were a valuable channel for providing business feedback.
After all, he’d designed them that way.
“No goodnight kiss? There’s old-fashioned, and then there’s just stupid.”
Harold agreed, sounding indignant. “Yes, Detective Carter was extremely charming by any objective standard, and her dress is....” He trailed off, apparently realizing John couldn’t see the video. “I’ll send you a capture from the security feed. But the point remains--”
“Shhh!” John said. “Carter’s talking.”
“Not so fast, Detective. I think we have another matter to discuss.” There was a rustle of fabric, and some muffled sounds. John’s phone pinged on the counter, and he opened the text from Finch: an image of Carter kissing a tall, dark man on the steps of her brownstone. She was wearing a knockout purple dress that he’d never seen before, and had her hand fisted in the man’s sharply cut lapel.
Harold said wryly, “It appears Detective Carter took matters into her own hands.”
John let out a hah! of satisfaction. “She does like to get her man.”
“As you have excellent reason to know.” John could practically hear Harold rolling his eyes.
“She never kissed me,” John said innocently.
“Right. She just arrested you.”
“Only the once.”
“And in the interest of keeping it that way--” Harold tapped at his keyboard, and the faint sounds from Carter’s feed cut off abruptly.
“Well, that went well,” John said brightly. “Not a bad way to spend a Friday night.”
“Oh!” Harold said suddenly. “Which reminds me: your dog needs a bath, and tomorrow is the day you agreed to do it. It’s your turn to dry.”
Reese made a face. It was always his turn to dry - probably because he kept finding ways out of it. But unless they got a number in the morning, he’d have no excuse.
“I guess I better get a good night’s sleep, then,” he said, rubbing a finger over his ear, feeling oddly guilty for hoping to get a number. But really, it wasn’t like he was wishing someone would get killed -- he’d save them.
It was more than just getting out of Bear-drying duty. Working things out with Harold, having his voice in John’s ear: it grounded him. He looked forward to it.
Even off the job, apparently.
“We should do this again sometime,” he said casually.
To his surprise, Harold said, “I’ll set up a program to track when Carter and Beecher’s phones are in the same location,” then added dryly, “Will you be making popcorn again?”
John smirked. “I’ll even share.”
Harold snorted in amusement. “Good night, Mr. Reese.”
“Sleep well, Harold,” John said.
He pulled out his earpiece, and went to bed still smiling.
Finch: You’re in a good mood, Mr. Reese.
Reese: I am. I woke up this morning and felt -- it took me awhile to put my finger on it, but I felt... happy. Must be this job.
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