John Porter & Jenny: The Windward Passage

Part IX

Part IX:

I freeze up.

I might have screamed something eloquent, like "NO!", as a another man closed with John from the shadows. I can't remember. I only remember the dull *pop* as the second man's elbow broke when John pined his arm behind his back and shoved him into the third assailant as there was another gunshot.

And then men running past me into the melee. Men in fatigues. And Marcus.

That was over 40 minutes and two police statements ago.

Now, waiting in a lounge at the local station, John has started to pace like a caged cat. Despite my reassurances that Alex is probably safe and sound on the Spirit, he's called, he's texted. He can't get through. Between that and the residual adrenaline, he is practically quivering with tension. And powerless to do anything about it.

One of the worst combinations a man can be.

"FUCK!" he explodes. Mercifully his cell phone remains intact, though the set of reference books on the file cabinet winds up on the floor. I know better than to pour gasoline on the fire by telling an upset man to "calm down", but I admit for the first time since I met him, John has...startled me.

"AND WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU THINK YOU WERE DOING?" He whirls on the only other target in the room. "I TOLD YOU TO GET OUT OF THERE!"

O.K. I'll admit it. I quailed. He's big, he has a deep growly voice, and when he is mad he is scary. However, my annoyance at my reaction prompts me to another, more dangerous, method of dealing with men in this state.

"I DIDN'T WANT TO LEAVE YOU ALONE, YOU MORON!" I roar back.

Backburn.

John inhales for the return volley, then snaps his mouth shut and turns away, striding to the far end of the room where he just breathes for a few moments.

"I'm sorry," he finally mutters.

"It's o.k."

"No, it's not. You didn't deserve that."

"We'll sort that out later. Are you going to let me look at that?" The annoyed and quizzical knit of his brows softens somewhat as he finally notes the red fight bite on his knuckles. "Come on, let me see."

After washing his hands, John sits on the old leather couch as I use the antiseptic pads and band-aids from the first aid kit mounted on the wall.

"Plaster."

"Band aid."

He doesn't flinch, but there a quiet "Ow" as the antiseptic does its work. "Most powerful nation in the world and can't even speak the language properly," He grumbles.

"Have you been to the East End lately? Northumberland? And what the hell is the etymology for the use of "pants" for "bad"? And where did you all get "snogging" anyway?"

It works, his grim countenance softening with a hint of a wry smile for a moment."I thought you liked "snogging.""

"I do. I like saying it. I like doing it. Still doesn't make any sense."

"Why didn't you run?"

"I told you..."

"I didn't know how many were. I didn't know if I could have protected you. When I tell you to run, run." His words are accentuated by a tightening grip on my shoulder.

"Well you did protect me, so there's no harm done." I put the "plasters" on his hand, thinking that the muggers never even came near me. "I understand what you are saying, John, I do, but I can't promise to do what I'm told. In fact, when someone orders me to do something, my knee jerk reaction is to do the opposite."