Inverse
Jezyk
Disclaimer: Not mine
Spoilers: Through Shadow Box

Part One

She'd seen it before, a million times over, and she'd never agreed with it. Not in Afghanistan. Not with evidence-proven terrorists. Definitely not with a friend. And unlike Afghanistan, this time she couldn't say a damn word, couldn't voice her disproval in the slightest, couldn't storm out of the room, couldn't even frown. She had to stand there with a smile on her face and discuss the next approach should the current form of torture fail to produce any actionable intelligence.

There was too much riding on this to let her feelings show.

Though she couldn't sit by him in that room with the thermostat jacked up to well over ninety degrees or shiver next to him when they lowered it to near freezing, nor could she feel the pain of the 150-watt spotlight shining in his eyes, she could be a witness to it. She could refuse to give herself the comfort of sleep or even closing her eyes, deny herself the food and water that might give her enough strength to withstand it. And she could refuse to leave, except for her shifts watching the other innocent - at least of this bullshit Donnelly had made up - men suffer the same punishment. She could be with him, as close as she could physically be.

It was all she could do, all she was able to do without putting both of them in more danger. So she suffered along with him, her anguish mental to his physical, sharing his pain the best she could.

She knew that he would sooner die than crack, but she wished he could see the bigger picture. For once, his understanding of the situation was less than hers. Any other time she might have admired the way he could withstand anything they threw at him without flinching, but now she recognized that his ability to remain steadfast was likely to be his undoing.

The rest of the men would crack under the pressure; one of the four already had and was trying to argue his way into a plea of attempted armed robbery. The fact that John would still be standing when the rest of the dominos fell would give away his CIA training, would reveal that he was in fact the man they were looking for.

There were two relatively good things so far, things she had to keep reminding herself of to keep from begging for mercy for her friend. The first was that John's fingerprints hadn't matched any in the system. She'd been there, run them herself for the second time, this time fully expecting a list a mile long of crimes that would at first glance make him appear to be a truly terrible man. Finch had to have something to do with that, probably having hacked all the law enforcement databases to erase any record of John's exploits. The other good - rather, not hideously bad - thing was that Donnelly was nearly out of his mind. He was too focused on the idea that he finally had his man, though he still had no idea which one of them it was, to think clearly.

He hadn't yet thought of offering them all deals to see who would take it. He hadn't yet realized that the last one to break was the one he was looking for. He hadn't paid any attention to the tears that pricked her eyes when he prattled on about all the tricks he had up his sleeve to force the man in the suit to show himself.

She knew that they could use that razor-focus of Donnelly's to their advantage, but unfortunately, John was too absorbed by withstanding this torture to realize it. She could see it in his eyes, in the emotionless, empty stare he'd fixed on the mirror over a day earlier; he'd mentally shut down, his trained response that would allow him to survive.

Except that he wasn't in an overseas prison where there was no line that wouldn't be crossed. No one was about to pull out jumper cables or acid. John was waiting for that, had steeled himself for that eventuality, had resigned himself to dying right where he was. The FBI task force was playing fast and loose with the rules, but she knew she wouldn't be the only one in the room who would object to such tactics.

His survival depended on her the way he often depended on Finch to pull a rabbit out of the hat. She needed to think for him, to manipulate the system he was trapped in until he could make his way out.

Her stomach growled as she watched Donnelly helping himself to a fried chicken dinner, complete with mashed potatoes and a beer. He was sitting across the table from John, a demented smirk on his face as he enjoyed food, a basic need John and the others who were each facing an agent, had been denied. She was free to come and go as she pleased, and had denied herself food each and every time it had been offered in her quiet display of solidarity.

Even as she stood there, her stomach knotting in displeasure, her eyes focused on Donnelly, watching the way he bit into the chicken leg, realizing how barbaric he looked tearing the meat from the bone the way a lion would do with a gazelle. She couldn't have eaten then if someone had paid her; it was all she could do not to vomit.

She tapped on the glass, Donnelly's head whipping over to look at her, John's eyes never wavering from whatever memory he was seeing.

To say Donnelly was unhappy to pack up his meal and return to the observation room was an understatement, but she was ready.

"Look, I know you guys have your methods and believe me, I've seen them work on the most resolved of men, but I have an idea." It was the same line, the same thought she'd fed everyone in the Army. She'd been in intelligence, perhaps the worst place for someone as empathetic as her to be, but she knew there were other ways. She'd been far more successful getting information out of suspects, in the Army and in the NYPD, by befriending them. And these men - especially John - deserved a break.

Donnelly's eyes narrowed, but he nodded at her to continue.

"These guys are used to you and your men, your tactics, they've shut down. None of them have said a word for hours." She offered a soft smile as though to provide an example as she spoke. "Maybe it's time for my good cop to your bad."

"They won't be expecting a pretty face after three days of this." He nodded, his eyes lighting up once again. "You're right, a friend is exactly what they need."

She held her breath, biting back the urge to cheer, forcing herself to stare expectantly. "Who do you like? Where should I start?" She couldn't start with John, especially not if he left the decision up to her, but it would be best if he chose. There would be less for him to read into when he eventually got his wits about him again.

Donnelly shrugged, his eyes lighting on John for a moment, then back at her. "Take your pick, Agent," he grinned at her for a moment, "Carter. Personally I like contestant number three." His fingers tapped the file of one of the other men and she let out her breath.

"Ok, I'm going to make a quick stop and I'll see you there."

She took a Pepsi and a bag of chips to the redhead, wondering how the hell no one else had yet realized that this light haired man, though a height match for John, was absolutely not the dark haired man they'd caught on camera. The other two were painfully obviously not even close as well, both men shorter and skinnier than John. She told herself that was due only to the fact that she knew the answer and tried to remember what a shock it had been the first time she'd seen his face clean-shaven.

She saw the relief in the stranger's eyes when he realized she wasn't there to taunt him with the snack, but to offer it to him. She saw some of his bravado melt away instantly as he raised the drink to his lips. She went through the motions, telling him she was exhausted and worried about her son who she hadn't seen in three days and how she hoped they'd get the information they needed soon so everyone could move on. She focused on the bank, on the crime all four men had been caught committing, occasionally throwing a curve and asking about John's history. Luckily, it was far from her best work and the man was a seasoned criminal, if she read him correctly, and so she left the room forty-five minutes later with her head hanging in faux disappointment.

She moved on to the next guy, the one who'd been wearing a tie, who'd actually made eye contact with her when Donnelly asked her if she recognized any of them. Rather than a snack, which would only serve to further torture her, she switched off the light shining in his eyes. The same approach, the same questions, but rather than relief, this bastard was spewing venom about her and her heritage and how if he had his way he'd kill them all. She only wasted thirty minutes with him before she left, knowing she was dangerously close to decking him, but trying to make it seem fair when she would stay with John as long as humanly possible.

She hated to see an innocent man imprisoned, but if she had to pick someone to throw under the bus when the time came, she'd choose him. Her damned soul for John's life. Not ideal, but it would all be straightened out eventually, when the CIA caught wind of it and proved that man was not John Reese, so he wouldn't suffer nearly as badly as John would. John would be killed, this man released. It was the best she could do under the circumstances.

Finally, she found herself entering the room with John. He didn't look at her when she came in. She couldn't even be sure he knew anyone was there, let alone who she was. He was still staring blankly at nothing, his body shivering in response to the cold. It was the worst for him, she knew without asking. The man always wore a winter coat early in the fall and late into the spring, his collar turned up against cold she knew he was only imagining. He didn't like to be cold, maybe the product of having spent too many years in the desert during his Army days, maybe the result of having grown up in the cold Northwest.

She headed straight for the thermostat and turned it up a little higher than she would have found comfortable, just to give him a little bit of comfort for as long as she could. Then she sat down across from him, denying her desire to meet his eyes or reach for his hand. To keep up the pretense, she asked some general questions, assuring him that she was trying to help him out the same as she'd tried with the other men. There was no way to come straight out and tell him that breaking was the only way to exonerate himself, so instead she alluded to how everyone else was cracking and spilling what they knew and claiming that the best deal was going to whoever gave up the best information, hoping he could read the message in her eyes.

She lingered as long as she could, fearing that she was giving herself away, yet desperate for some kind of sign from him that he at least recognized her. Finally, she threw caution to the wind, trying something she hadn't with the other two men. She moved around the table, squatting down next to his chair, grabbing his chin and forcing him to look her in the eye as she begged him to "give us something."

Her heart nearly stopped when he looked at her, his eyes wide and unfocused. He moved as quickly as she'd always known him to, grabbing her throat a little too tightly, lifting her and pinning her to the wall in one swift move. She didn't even have to fake the fear that washed over her face, nor the instinctive response of clawing at his hand. He leaned in, his body flush against hers, his mouth at her ear, and for an alarming moment, it was desire rather than fear that caused her to tremble.

"Please let me go," she shrieked to cover herself when she turned toward him and lowered her voice to a whisper. "None of the others are CIA trained to take this, you'll give yourself away." She knew that it was all for show, that he'd been looking for an opportunity to give her a message. She trusted him. Completely. Even with his hand clamped around her throat.

His eyes were cold and hard as he continued to hold her, his expression giving nothing away to anyone who might review the footage, but there was a crack, an opening he allowed her to see, proving that he was completely aware of who she was and what she was putting on the line for him. His hand eased up, his touch feather-light against her skin, his thumb moving to caress her jaw where it would be hidden from the camera. "This will go bad, don't give them anything." His voice was a whisper, but commanding as ever.

He'd barely finished speaking when the team came rushing through the door, pulling John away and dropping him with repeated blows to the head and abdomen.

The idea that she'd been assaulted gave her cover for the way she whined when they escorted her from the room. The plan had backfired on her, the precious moments with him only making her miss his presence more; the knowledge that he hadn't shut down the way she'd thought only making her ache more.