A/N: Just something I've had in the archives for a few weeks.
Warnings: Some mentions and partial descriptions of torture/violence. Also, possible emotional triggers.
"I'm looking for a place,
I'm searching for a face,
Is anybody here I know?
'Cause nothing's going right,
And everything's a mess,
And no one likes to be alone"
/ I'm With You by Avril Lavigne /
No. She inhales sharply. It can't be.
But it is. They betrayed me.
A sharp pain penetrates her chest at the thought, but it's muted in an instant as an icy chill sweeps down her spine and fear coils in her gut. Discreetly, she slips into the crowd of agents, smoothly maneuvering herself to be swept further into the building. The most direct exit, the elevator, was currently blocked, forcing her to escape by other means.
She wants to run but that would attract too much attention so she forces herself to walk, slowly, one foot in front of the other.
It's agony.
She'd always been aware that she was trapped at the FBI, caught between the team and Sandstorm, unsure of who to trust - if anyone. It was infuriating and painful, but it was bearable. She glances back over her shoulder, catching a final glimpse of the man who'd stepped off of the elevator. All she'd seen was his back. He was average height, lean, and generally unassuming; except for the three, seemingly innocuous letters she'd heard cross his lips seconds later.
"...CIA..."
Jane had recognized his voice immediately and, seeing him a second time, she's certain that she knows him.
She turns left down a hallway, losing sight of the man, although his image remains at the forefront her mind. She feels her hands trembling and clenches them tightly as vivid memories overwhelm her senses, her skin burning as if she were back in that room.
Jane throws her hands up, desperately seeking to protect herself, but the chains cut through the air fast and furious. They land a cruel blow to her arms and she immediately withdraws them, pulling into herself as heat sears across her forearms. The subsequent blow is swift, catching her off-guard and unprotected, as it rakes a white-hot trail across her back.
She screams.
When she finally comes back to herself, Jane can feel the wet warmth on her cheeks, and quickly brushes it away. She ducks down another hallway and slips into the locker room, itching to get her hands on her weapon.
The motion lights switch on as she weaves her way through the room, navigating through aisles and around long benches, until she comes to her locker. In a few seconds, it's open and she's rummaging through her meager belongings. She grabs her gun and tucks it into the back of her jeans. After a few moments, she also decides to switch out her shirt with a forest green one that she'd kept as a back-up and to ditch her signature leather jacket. It would help disguise her but not by much.
Suddenly, there's a soft whoosh as the door opens and she freezes. It's just another agent heading to their locker. She tries to reassure herself but her breath quickens with anxiety. Or it could be the team here to arrest me - to hand me back over to the CIA. To him.
She can't - won't - take that chance.
Jane draws her weapon, its weight a small comfort to her racing heart. She can hear a lone set of footsteps and watches expectantly. A man rounds the corner, head down, eyes focused on his phone.
Kurt.
Her heart clenches painfully. Just like last time, which means Zapata and Reade will be nearby - probably by the exit. She exhales roughly, gathering what little strength she has, before icily commanding, "Don't move."
His head snaps up and he acts surprised, his eyes darting between her and the gun. "Wh - "
"How many are there?" She demands, cutting him off.
Kurt slowly raises his hands, confusion marring his features, "Jane...what's going on?"
"Cut the crap, Weller. I know they're here." Her eyes dart behind her, aware of her vulnerable position. "He's here. Just tell me how many other CIA agents he brought with him."
He's silent, his mouth slightly agape as if he's still trying to process what's happening, and Jane sighs inwardly. She needs to move and she knows Kurt won't divulge any information unless it's to delay her, but she can't help prolonging the moment. After today, she'd be hunted by the FBI, the CIA, Sandstorm, and who knew who else. She'd never get this close to him again. This was it for them; this was her closure, however pathetic and unsatisfying it may be.
Frustrated, she barks harshly, "Talk or I shoot."
When he finally speaks, his voice is calm, bordering condescending, "Jane, there's no one here for you, okay?...Look, you've been under a lot of stress lately." Well, that was an understatement. "Just put the gun down." He slowly steps forward, a hand extending towards her placatingly, but she'd learnt her lesson in New Jersey.
"Don't." She orders. "Don't come any closer."
He immediately stops, backtracks, surprise flashing across his face. "I'm not going to hurt you."
Her face darkens, anger prevalent. "No. That's what the CIA is for." She tightens her grip on the gun. "I won't hesitate this time, Kurt." She warns. "I won't hold back."
His eyes widen with concern and he promptly switches tactics. "Jane. I promise I won't let anyone take you."
She scoffs. "I don't believe you. You didn't stop them from taking me before and I'm pretty sure I was worth more to you then than I am now. At least you didn't know how far I'd fallen then." Her voice tapers off, regret evident, but she remains steadfast as she waves the gun, motioning for him to step aside. "Move."
"No." He's stubborn. "I didn't want them to take you, not then and not now. Jane, you're - "
" - the reason Mayfair is dead? Someone you can't and won't trust? An expendable asset?" The anger is back and her body thrums with its fire. "Don't pretend like I'm anything else. That's all I've been to you since the day I disappeared down a deep, dark hole - since the day you found me and dragged me back here; transferred from one prison to another."
"You're not in prison." He argues.
She smirks, "Right, 'cause I can leave whenever I want."
He sighs, frustrated. "Look, it's not ideal b - "
"Is that how you would describe three months at a CIA black site? Is that what you would call my life now? Not ideal?"
"You betrayed this team." Kurt retorts coldly. "You betrayed me. I let you in and y - "
"You let Taylor in." She interrupts harshly. "There was no room for anyone else, especially not for me."
Kurt is silent, caught off-guard by the accusation.
"Y'know, even without Oscar, I would've pretended to be her..." She trails off, a sad smile forming on her lips. "...because the way you looked at me, it was..."
"Jane..." He breathes softly.
She shakes her head. "It doesn't matter now." Her eyes drop to the floor and she laughs derisively. "There was a time when I thought - I'd hoped - that maybe we could fix things...if you just gave me a chance to explain - to apologize - because I am sorry, Kurt. If I could go back, if I could just do it all over again, I'd do it differently."
He wants to speak but the words won't come and she doesn't give him the chance.
"But you've made it clear that I don't belong here and that you don't trust anything I say or do, no matter how hard I try to prove that you can." Weary, she exhales heavily. "I've been trying and trying but I'm so exhausted..." A tear spills down her cheek. "I can't go back there, Kurt. I won't." She asserts softly, her voice cracking as she admits, "I'm not strong enough."
...her lungs burn, desperate for oxygen...
...she bucks, twists, and turns under their grip...
...she inhales sharply, the water rubbing her throat raw...
...darkness creeps into her vision, promising relief...
When Kurt re-appears in front of her, he's suddenly closer, and she recoils in surprise, her aim steady even as she pulls the trigger. There's a resounding crack and Kurt collapses, his leg unwilling to support him as the bullet tears through his thigh. It's a good shot - clean, non-lethal, but debilitating.
He won't be able to stop her this time.
Groaning, he slowly pulls himself up and leans against the wall of lockers, his face contorted with pain from the effort. He glances at her with as much surprise as she feels and there's an apology on her lips but she swallows it back, the I'm sorry dying in her throat as a painful knot. Her words hadn't mattered before and they surely didn't now.
What's done is done.
She needs to keep moving.
Her mask slips back into place, apathetic and calculating, as she swiftly circumvents his folded form. He watches her, conflicted, as she moves toward the door. "Jane." He says aloud, surprising himself.
She stops.
When he speaks, his voice is soft, contrite, and, in many ways, as broken as she is. "I'm sorry."
She nods, almost imperceptibly, to acknowledge that she'd heard him but then, without a backwards glance, she pulls the door open and is gone. Still stunned, Kurt watches her leave, his gaze lingering, half-expecting her to return.
But she doesn't...
...and he doesn't have to wonder why.
Fin.