Author's Note: I do NOT cope well with season finales. I basically generate these strange, semi-coherent stream of consciousness thoughts (I can't even call them fics) until I have exorcised enough demons that I can wait semi-patiently for the fall premiere (or go lose myself in AU fics; that's the next step in this program). Thank you/I'm sorry for dragging you with me!
She was doing a pretty good job, Remi thought, pretending to be an attentive wife while Weller recuperated. His meds made him sleepy, so she made sure that he always took them on time.
The FBI wasn't as hard to fool as she would have expected. They fussed over her almost as much as they did Kurt. (Damn, she really had done a great job pulling the wool over their eyes.) She figured out quickly that if she kept her mouth shut most of the time, she was fine. And if that wasn't an option, she just had to give a tiny frown and raise a hand to her forehead, and they immediately suggested that she rest, too.
Rest. She snorted inwardly. She didn't need rest, she needed answers. And so while Weller slept, she systematically searched every inch of the apartment for clues. She checked all of the places she would have used to hide a burner phone or a memory stick or anything she would have wanted to hide from Weller. She searched the vents, the underside of all the drawers. She looked for loose floorboards, for false backs or bottoms in closets and cabinets, for empty spaces behind switchplates or light fixtures. But every search came up empty.
And so in frustration, she turned to the more obvious sources of intel. The photos on the walls, the album on the end table. But the story there was nothing if not consistent. Her own smiling face looked back at her. She looked like any happy bride in their wedding photos. She even appeared to be wiping away tears in a few of the candid shots. There were pictures that showed the passage of seasons, of years. Pictures of her posing in Weller's arms, with the team, with the toddler who was his daughter. She shuddered at those—children weren't something she'd ever been around long enough to be comfortable with. But the version of herself in the photos certainly seemed to be. Her cover had obviously been very well established.
The photos on her phone told the same story. Endless photos of Kurt and Bethany—that was her name, his daughter. Named after the former AD of the NYO, Bethany Mayfair? Was she dead then, or just in jail?—and then a few that made her stop and examine them more closely.
Avery. Her daughter. She'd come to see Jane while she and Kurt had still been in the hospital. It had taken everything Remi had not to react with all the shock she'd felt. She'd seen pictures of her, a few years before her memory wipe. She and Roman had traced her, found out that she'd been adopted by a loyal employee of one of Shepherd's business associates. But she'd been safe, and Remi and Shepherd had begun planning her infiltration of the FBI, so she'd pushed thoughts of her daughter away.
But now she indulged herself, taking a few minutes to study Avery's face, cataloging the changes between the awkward teenager she glimpsed and the near-adult who had visited her in the hospital. Avery had left to begin college a few days after Remi woke up. She'd offered to stay, to help take care of her mother and stepfather. Remi'd had to catch herself before she snorted. What were they, in their dotage now? But some part of her had been touched at the offer, even as she'd assured Avery that it wasn't necessary.
Near the end of the photos, several years in the past, she found the photos of Roman. He was sprawled on a sofa with a piece of pizza in his hand. He was making a face at the camera, and she knew she'd been the one who'd taken the picture. How many times had she seen that same smirk on his face over the years? She swallowed, trying to ignore the pang that went through her at his familiar grin.
Patterson had been the one to tell her the news, while she was still in the hospital, though she obviously believed Remi already know. "We made the arrangements," she said, obviously concerned about the toll the conversation would take on her. "I'm sorry—You were unconscious and Weller was in surgery and someone had to and—He was buried beside your parents, in a small cemetery not far from your family home."
Remi had kept her face completely impassive. She would never show these people how much she hurt.
"When you're feeling better," the blond told her, earnestly, so earnestly, "you can go back to South Africa. And—and see where they all are." She squeezed Remi's hand, and it was all Remi could do not to yank her arm away.
And that was another thing. Apparently she was dying, or at least her brain was. That explained why she'd lost so much time. She wondered idly if Shepherd had known the risks and kept them from her. Remi wouldn't be surprised; she would have done the same. The mission was all-important, more so than any one individual's health.
Roman had left her some information about the damage the ZIP had done, but not all of it. Patterson had assured her they were examining everything they had and looking for the rest. Remi's lips twisted up into a humorless smile. Sibling rivalry, it seemed, never died. Roman had never made anything easy in life. Why should he turn over a new leaf in death?
Of course, none of this explained how the FBI knew about Roman. Or South Africa or Alice or Remi. If her cover had been blown, why was she still here? Not only not in jail, but married to Weller and apparently still trusted by the FBI. Had he married her before he found out she wasn't Taylor Shaw? Wouldn't he have divorced her, once he'd found out she was lying about who she was? None of this made any sense, and the person who would have been able to explain it all to her was dead.
She shut off the phone with a flick of her thumb, hiding Roman's picture away. She had no time for illness or for the past. She had a mission to complete.
###
The need for information drove her, so the next time she'd dosed Weller with his pain pills, she swiped his phone from his nightstand, hoping there was something there that might help. His text history wasn't very illuminating, mostly brief messages from various members of the team with scant case details, or pictures of his daughter, sent by her mother. She didn't remember that he'd been dating Allie when she'd started the op, but Jane Doe must have done an effective job of breaking them up if Boy Scout Weller hadn't married his child's mother, a move that seemed out of character for him, to say the least.
His photo history was more of the same as the photo albums. Pictures of herself, of Bethany, of her with Avery. She lingered over one candid shot, in which both she and Avery were laughing, suddenly sad that she couldn't recall the reason for their mirth. She flipped past it and then stopped abruptly.
It was a picture of herself. She was sleeping on her stomach, face turned toward the camera, and she was quite obviously naked, although from the way she was sleeping, only her bare back and arms were visible. She'd studied her tattoos in great detail in the privacy of the bathroom, but her gaze had been more critical, trying to resolve each puzzle they represented. The rest of the time, she tried not to notice them, banishing any sense of loss for her clear, unmarked skin. She'd done this for a reason, and clearly her mission wasn't complete yet, if she was still here.
But this picture... this wasn't for FBI documentation or for a mission. It was just because the photographer thought she looked... beautiful. Even the chopped-off, messy hair that she despised seemed lovely, forming soft waves that framed her face, relaxed in sleep. Her lips were curled up ever so slightly, as if she were dreaming in her sleep.
Remi couldn't remember the last time she'd dreamed of happy things. She woke from nightmares from time to time, but even when she didn't, her sleep these days was restless, punctuated by images that she couldn't see fully nor understand if she could.
She swiped swiftly to the next photo, apparently taken right after the last. She was awake in this one, head slightly lifted from the pillow, revealing a crease in her cheek upon which she'd been resting. But it was the expression on her face that stopped her cold. Her eyes weren't fully open, giving the sense that she was still half asleep. But the look in her eyes radiated nothing but happiness, a mix of lazy contentedness, sexy playfulness, and... what looked like love.
She was a good actress, she congratulated herself. No wonder she had them all fooled. But a cold draft prickled down her spine, and she swiftly closed the apps she'd used and crept back into the bedroom to replace the phone on Weller's nightstand.
He was sprawled on his back on the right side of the bed, snoring slightly. She'd moved into the guest room vacated by Avery, telling him she didn't want to risk bumping into his still-healing wound while he was still recuperating. He hadn't argued, but she thought he'd looked a little sad. He still was asleep, the painkillers having done their job, but as she watched, his left hand stretched out, moving restlessly over the empty side of the bed. He mumbled something in his sleep, a garbled syllable that might have been "Jane."
She stifled a sigh. She needed him to stay asleep while she looked for something—anything—that might tell her where she stood in her plans. She leaned over and put her hand on his shoulder. His hand instantly stilled, his whole body relaxing into the chemically-induced slumber. She stood still for a few moments, feeling his chest rising and falling beneath her hand, warming her cold fingers. She cautiously withdrew her hand, relaxing only when he appeared to remain asleep.
She had to keep looking, so she could complete her mission and go back to her real life. Because whatever this life was, it wasn't—it could never be—real.
###
On their third day home from the hospital, Patterson came to visit in the morning, bringing them bagels for breakfast, along with groceries. Weller perked up a bit and made his way carefully from the bedroom to the kitchen table, where he demanded to be filled in on the information they'd found on the drive.
Remi kept quiet as they'd talked, careful not to reveal her increasing dismay. She couldn't remember anything about the tattoos they were discussing, couldn't summon a picture of them in her mind nor remember what puzzles they were meant to unlock. She would have blamed her faulty memory, but she also couldn't recall having seen any of these designs when she'd studied the patterns etched on her skin.
"Maybe I could come into the office for a bit," she suggested casually, "just to see what's on the drive."
Both Patterson and Weller frowned. "You need to take it easy," the blond intervened quickly, shooting a reassuring glance at Weller as she patted Remi's arm. "In a few days, when you're both feeling better, you can come in for a few hours. But you know Reade was clear that you were both to take time off to rest and recuperate."
Remi couldn't give up that easily. "We don't know how much time I have," she said persuasively, suppressing a smile at the obvious worry immediately displayed on both of their faces. "If there's something I can do—"
"You're going to be fine," Patterson insisted fiercely. "We have some of the best medical minds in the FBI working on the data Roman gave us. We will figure out what's wrong with you, Jane, I promise."
Weller reached across the table and took Remi's hand in his. "You scared the hell out of me when you collapsed," he said quietly. "I know you hate this as much as I do, but I need you to be well as much as I need to get better myself."
She'd forced herself to smile and squeeze his fingers back, all the while seething with impatience inside.
###
That afternoon, while Weller slept off another pain pill, she resorted to watching the wedding video that she found on the shelf below the television set.
It was every bit as sappy as she'd expected, but still... if she hadn't known better, she would have sworn that this was a couple who was very much in love. She was a good actress, she knew. But even she couldn't quite believe the level to which she'd played that role. She looked so happy to be surrounded by those people, so blissful dancing with her husband, kissing him and feeding him cake.
It wasn't legal, she assured herself. Jane Doe was a fake name, a fake person with a fake marriage. None of it was at all real.
"Today is just... so perfect," her recorded image gushed.
Remi gritted her teeth and resisted the urge to fast-forward through the rest of the recording.
She'd learned nothing of value as the video made its way toward what she hoped was the end, when the recording was suddenly interrupted, and she found herself face to face with her brother. "Jane, you never thought happiness was in the cards for you, and, well, you were right. You're too broken, sis. Love just isn't in your DNA. And Weller, whatever you think you have with my sister, it's built on a foundation of lies. Someday you will feel the same pain I felt when she turned her back on me. I'm sorry to be a downer on your special day, I really am, but there's more pain coming. And there is nothing either of you can do to stop it."
Her fingers scrambled for the pause button, freezing his mocking smile mid-toast.
What the hell?
"You shouldn't watch that," said a raspy voice beside her, making her jump. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you." Weller carefully eased himself down onto the sofa beside her.
She cursed internally. The video had run longer than she'd thought it would, and she'd lost track of time. She reached for the remote to shut it off, but her fumbling fingers encountered Weller's hand instead.
He squeezed her hand gently in his, just as he had at the table earlier. "I know it hurts to see him. He was still your brother, despite everything he did."
She tried to make sense of what she'd just seen. Roman would have known that she was pretending. He would have known that their marriage wasn't real. Was this an act for Weller's benefit?
She might have believed it, except that she knew she was the better actor of the two of them. The Roman in this video was too bitter, too angry to be pretending. His temper had always been his greatest flaw. When he was angry, he couldn't control his emotions, which usually meant risking his cover. She'd tried for years to break him of it, to no avail.
"Are you okay?" asked Weller quietly, and she realized with a start that he was still holding her hand, stroking his fingers soothingly up across her knuckles.
Being comforted was a foreign feeling. No one had ever comforted Remi, except Roman, in his own way. Not since she'd been Alice had anyone been gentle or tender with her feelings. Not that she would have let them. Comfort would never change the wrongs of the world. Only action could do that.
"I still... can't believe he's gone," she said, not untruthfully.
Weller nodded. "Even with everything he did, he was still your brother. It's okay to miss him."
She nodded her head jerkily, her eyes still fixed on the image frozen on the screen in front of her.
Weller let go of her hand, and for just a moment, she felt cold and abandoned. And then he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and drew her against his side. "It'll get easier," he whispered against her temple.
She forced herself to relax, allowing herself to curl in against his side as he clearly expected.
But she wasn't going to cry. She wasn't that weak.
So she closed her eyes, blocking out both the image on the television and the burning heat behind her eyelids.
It was the gurgling of Weller's stomach that woke her from her semi-dozing state some time later. She hadn't meant to drift off, but he'd been so warm and soothing that somehow she had. Her eyes flickered open to discover that Weller had both arms wrapped around her now, and both of her hands were resting on top of his. Her head was comfortably pillowed on his shoulder. The DVR had given up and shut off at some point, leaving the television screen mercifully blank, and the afternoon sun painted long shadows across the floor of the room.
"This is the most comfortable I've been in weeks," Weller murmured, his voice more of a vibration against her cheek, "but I'm getting hungry."
"And you're due for a pain pill," she told him, detaching herself as quickly as she could without seeming like she was hurrying and rising to her feet.
He scrunched up his face like a kid. "Damn things knock me on my ass," he complained.
She stifled an errant smile. In all the research that she'd done, he'd always looked so serious. Driven. She hadn't expected him to look kind of, well, cute when he was out of sorts.
Not that she could disagree with him. She avoided pain medications for the same reason.
"You should still take it," she said. The sooner he recovered, the sooner he could go back into the office, and the sooner he was there, the sooner she could get in too.
She turned toward the kitchen as he fell into step beside her. His arm draped over her shoulders again. "Yes, ma'am," he said with suspect meekness.
She shot him a look out of the corner of her eye, pretty sure was teasing her. But he just smiled blandly at her. "Did Patterson bring me more of that beef stew?"
###
"You don't have to sleep in the guest room," he told her, after he'd eaten his stew and swallowed the pain pills she gave him.
She paused in the act of hanging up the kitchen towel. "Your stomach—I don't want to—"
"It will be fine, Jane." He smiled, his eyes crinkling in the corners. "I'm tougher than I look."
She just nodded, trying to keep her face blank as she concocted an excuse—nothing too obvious, something about his health? His restless sleeping? Or—
"I'm fine." He'd stopped front of her, and before she could register the moment, he ducked his face and kissed her, his hands coming up to hold her face gently in his fingertips.
His lips were soft and warm, the touch almost unbearably tender. She was so stunned that she was frozen for a second, and then her lips parted, so she could kiss him back.
He drew away a moment later, leaning his forehead against hers. "Damn drugs," he muttered. "I better lay down before I fall down."
"You should rest," she said, finding her voice, still off-kilter from the kiss, brief though it was.
"Not without you," he argued, a stubborn look in his eye, even though he seemed to be swaying slightly as he stood.
"All right, fine." She steered him toward the bedroom and helped him into the bed.
"I'm going to go brush my teeth," she said and escaped into the bathroom.
She needed him to get into the FBI, so if this was what it took to make him feel better, then this was what she had to do. The fact that his kiss had felt... familiar... was clearly just because she'd been undercover so long. She stared at her face in the mirror, the unfamiliar hair, the bird tattoo on her neck. She'd been married for two years, and it was pretty clear that her husband thought the marriage was real. So she'd done a helluva lot more than just exchange a chaste kiss.
Kurt Weller, there's a lot I want to say to you, but I was told to keep it PG-13, so I'll save the good stuff for our honeymoon, the stranger with her face had said in the wedding video.
She gulped. If she were being honest, she'd admit that she'd thought Weller was attractive when they were planning the mission. Not her type, of course— she liked her men more wiry, with personalities to match— but not unappealing, either. Shepherd had never explicitly ordered her to sleep with Weller, but Remi knew that "gain his confidence" left an awful lot of leeway. But they'd expected the mission to take no longer than a few months at most. Not years.
She brushed her teeth slowly, hoping that he'd be well asleep by the time she got out there.
By the time she emerged from the bathroom, Weller seemed to be out like a light. She turned off the lamp on his nightstand, then circled around the bed to crawl in on the other side. But as soon as she put her weight on the mattress, he stirred and reached his arm out in an unmistakable invitation. She drew a deep breath, and then stretched out beside him, resting her head lightly on his shoulder.
"That's better," he mumbled, hugging her close. "Night." She felt him press a kiss to the top of her head.
"Night," she whispered.
She'd scoot away, she told herself, as soon as he fell asleep. Unless… Did he sleep like this with Jane? Then he'd expect her to stay. Her thoughts seemed so muddled now. At least he was comfortable. And so was she. She felt… safe, she thought muzzily, and felt herself drifting away before she could tell herself how ridiculous that was.