Title: Blinding (1/2)

Universe: Blindspot, season 1, post-1x09

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: Jane Doe/Kurt Weller

Summary: "She felt intensely, fearfully female."

A/N: This story idea has been knocking around in my head ever since I read the passage quoted below from The Inheritance of Loss last semester. I just couldn't get that last line out of my head. These last couple days, I finally made the push to write/finish the story. Please note the rating, and let me know what you think if you get to the end.

x x x

"Tea and snacks. Is this how you treat your guests? Sending us back out into the cold with nothing to warm us up." They looked at one another, at her, looked up, down, and winked.

She felt intensely, fearfully female.

x x x

Weller was supposed to go in first, and secure the area. That was the plan: he'd take point, like usual, and Jane would follow behind, watching his six, while Tasha guarded them all from afar. It wasn't supposed to be a hard mission. They knew their suspects were in the decrepit building, and thanks to the scope on Tasha's rifle, they even knew which floor they were on, and what side of the building. Fifth floor, northwest corner. By Tasha's count, there were four men inside, though she'd mentioned over their communication link that she couldn't see the apartment's whole layout from her perch on the adjacent building, and that there might well be more than four. Weller had taken this into consideration, and deemed it appropriate for him and Jane to head on up anyway.

He would live to regret that decision.

At first, everything went smoothly. They left Special Agent Rodgers at the ground floor to watch for any fleeing suspects, and then they headed on up. Rodgers had joined their small team two weeks ago, after Reade suffered a bullet to the leg in the field and had been laid up on crutches for a minimum of three months. Rodgers was a good agent, Jane supposed. But not having been assigned to her case before this, curiosity came along with him. Blatant curiosity. Jane tried not to mind—after all, if she disliked every person that stared at her tattoos a little too long, she wouldn't be able to like anyone. But she was glad, nonetheless, that Weller had assigned Rodgers to stay down here. If she was going to be walking into a hostile situation, she wanted Weller with her, and not their newbie, no matter how accomplished he may be. His curiosity was still a liability at this point.

They ascended the stairs as quietly as possible, alerting Tasha over their comms whenever they'd reached a new landing. The place was deserted as well as run-down, and while Jane knew the only threat they faced were the men holed up on the fifth floor, she couldn't help looking over her shoulder as they walked further upstairs, forever worried that there was someone following behind, or someone they'd missed. Ever since Reade went on injury leave, she and Weller had been pairing up more and more, leaving Tasha to bring Rodgers up to speed. Usually Jane wouldn't mind such a split—no, usually, Jane would prefer it, an excuse to work alone with Kurt all day—but this particular mission had been making her anxious from the start.

Maybe it was that Reade wasn't with them, and Rodgers was.

Maybe it was that Tasha was a whole building away, only able to help them through a handful of windows, should it come to that.

Or maybe it was that this morning was the first time she and Weller geared up alone in the locker room since they'd come back from that undercover mission just a few weeks ago.

Usually they suit up as a full team; it's important to them all that they're on-mission together every step of the way, but Rodgers had been busy getting a debrief about the various exit points of the apartment building from Patterson, and Tasha had suited up early so she could go get a sniper rifle from the armory, so that had just left her and Kurt, changing together in that big, empty room.

Jane had been hyper-aware of him, even before they started changing, as he stood at the bank of lockers a row ahead of hers. She had tried to keep to herself, tried to keep her eyes focused on what she was doing, as she stripped out of her tank-top and into more protective and durable clothing. But it had been impossible. Kurt had worn a suit today—likely because the case had been going nowhere for days and days, and why wear field gear to work when you might never leave the office?—and she couldn't help but watch, out of the corner of her eye, as he took off every piece. His suits weren't elaborate like Reade's, no nice vest to accompany the jacket, but even just the shirt and the tie and the coat had been enough to remind her of the last time they'd been dressed up together in this room. He had been changing out of a tuxedo that time, and her a floor-length dress, but still…

"Easier to deal with than the tux," he'd smiled as he took off his tie, catching her eye, and she'd stared at his words, unable to believe that his mind had gone to the same place as hers, and yet overjoyed in that same moment, because if that wasn't some kind of sign…

He nodded at her flak jacket, into which she had just been trying to strap herself in, before she'd been so wonderfully distracted. "Easier or harder to change into than that ball gown? Heavier than the diamond necklace?"

"Not so bad," she had replied, her voice a barely above a whisper, too surprised to hear him joking with her to really know what to say. Things had been… different between them, ever since that mission a few weeks ago at Rich Dotcom's compound, where they'd pretended to be a married couple. Even though nothing much had happened there—they hadn't done anything more than hold hands hands during that mission, and had done absolutely nothing since—Jane had still felt things shifting between them. She had found herself watching him more, and more often than not, she noticed him watching back. They hadn't spoken of it, of whatever's changing, let alone acted on it, and yet it was still there, between them.

She had looked down again after she answered him, focusing on packing in her gear before chancing another look him, just a quick one, to gauge where his head was in relation to hers, and when she did, she stared even more obviously than before. She couldn't help herself; he was standing there just five feet in front of her, and he was naked from the waist up. It was the most of his body she'd ever seen unclothed.

And it was a nice body. She could feel her cheeks heat as she stared at him, took in the sight of muscled arms and back, the flat plane of his abdomen, the sparse trail of hair leading down from his chest to beneath the waistband of his pants… She'd stared so long that even he had noticed, and turned to her as he strapped on his holster. She should've looked down; with anyone else, she would've, but with him—

She just stared, unable to look away. And he had caught her doing so, had seen what she knew must be foolish, shameless desire in her eyes, and yet all he'd done in response was smile. He had even paused a few seconds before putting on his field shirt, as if to prolong the moment, his eyes holding hers now, the look in them mirroring her own, and when he finally ducked his head to pull the shirt over his head, she had let out a breath, full in equal parts of relief and loss. She had turned back to her own clothes, then, focusing very hard on making sure her flak jacket was on tight, and her holster on straight, so she wouldn't look over at him again and do something even stupider than what she'd just done. They had finished dressing and gearing up in silence then, but when he'd held the door to let her exit the locker room first, that smile from before returned to his face, wider now, and she couldn't help but smile back as they stepped back out into the office. There was a secret between them now, and for once, it was a good one.

Even the thought of it, now, as Jane ascended behind Weller up past the fourth floor, brought a flutter to her stomach. That look in his eyes while they'd been in the locker room this morning had been so knowing, so reciprocative, that even now she cannot be a hundred percent sure if she'd fantasized the whole thing or not. It wouldn't be the first time she imagined him returning her feelings.

"Arrived fifth floor. Heading down the hall towards the northwest corner."

Weller's voice in her earbud brought her back to reality, back to the present, back to the filthy hallway they were now heading down. Jane swallowed hard, forcing her thoughts away from this morning and back to the here and now. They might easily get wrapped up in a life-or-death situation here, she knew, if her head wasn't in the moment. There was absolutely no reason for her to be thinking about Kurt and what sort of romantic feelings he may or may not have for her when they're about to raid an apartment filled with men wanted by the FBI.

"Three yards away."

Weller's voice was quieter now, responding to their proximity to their suspects. Tasha, on the other end of their comms, acknowledged their position at the same volume. Jane kept her eye on the far end of the hall, her back to Weller's as they stepped in time down the hall, nearing apartment number fifteen. The noises from behind the wall got louder as they neared; music could be heard playing, and the cacophony of a number of men's voices arguing, each trying to be louder than the next. As they paused outside the door, Tasha reported that, by her count, there appeared to be five suspects on the other side of the wood. At least two were visibly armed, though she couldn't be sure about the rest, or if there were other weapons inside the apartment. There just weren't enough windows for her to see through.

"Jane?" Weller's voice reverberated twofold in her head; she could hear him in her right ear, and over her shoulder. He was waiting for confirmation that she'd heard, but he was also, she knew, allowing her an out if she thought it was too dangerous.

But two to five wasn't bad, she thought. They'd gone up against worst before together, and survived.

"Fine," she answered, nodding firmly though she knew he couldn't see her. "Let's go."

She listened to him shift behind her, and waited until he said he was in position before she turned around. She met his eye on the other side of the doorframe, each of them poised beside the entrance. He nodded at her, silently asking if she was ready. She shrugged, feigning indifference, as if this were a dull party they were about to walk into and not a potential firefight.

He grinned at her dismissiveness, his eyes alight with matching humor. She would remember that, afterwards. That grin. That moment of reckless happiness. Because he had no doubt thought, just like she had, that this would just be another day at work. Nothing special; nothing different than usual. Just a few minutes of shooting, some handcuffs, and a ride back to the Bureau with whatever suspects they'd wrangled in tow. And then, maybe, after all that was cleared up, she and Kurt could talk about that moment in the locker room… Or maybe they wouldn't have to talk, they'd just re-enact it, and let it go on a little longer this time…

Weller announced their intention to enter the apartment in a whisper to Tasha and Rodgers, over the comms, warning them to be ready should someone start to flee, before knocking on the door and doing the same aloud. The noise inside the apartment disappeared the moment the letters F-B-I came out of his mouth, and Jane tensed reflexively. It was never a good sign when a suspect's residence went completely quiet. Standing to the side of the door-in case the thin wood was about to be riddled with bullets, Weller banged on the door again, raising his voice this time, calling out their suspects by name, and his intent to arrest them.

Then there was a sound: a scuffle a whispered murmuring, and then Tasha was in their ears, saying they've got a runner heading down the fire escape, and Rodgers was reciprocating, moving from the front of the building towards the exit she mentioned. And then Weller was holding up three fingers to Jane, and then two, and then one, and then he's kicking the door open and stepping in, her behind him, both of them with their guns up, eyes wide and ready for a fight—

But there's nothing.

The first room was completely empty, save for a greasy empty pizza box, a muted TV, and a number of scattered beer bottles. Jane swallowed as they made their way carefully into the room, placing each foot as if she might step on a mine at any moment. She knew not to be fooled; the men they were looking for were still here, somewhere. Tasha only mentioned one on the run, and so there were at least four here, hiding.

"Forward." Weller's voice was so quiet it was almost inaudible, but she heard it still, and reacted at once, leaving his back so they were side by side, him a handful of steps in front of her, her trailing behind, eyes open, trigger finger ready to squeeze at any moment. Silently, he motioned for her to go right, and that he would go left. She nodded in acknowledgement and turned away from him to head into the room on the right. It couldn't have been more than a second, two. She had hardly even stepped away from him. She'd only turned her back for a moment.

But then she heard the shot go off, heard the grunt and thump of a scuffle, a handful of angry curses, and by the time she'd turned, hardly a split-second later, Weller was on the ground, with two men on top of him, all fighting for a hold on what weapons could be reached. He still had his gun in his hands, though the other two were clawing at it valiantly, and though Jane looked for who'd been shot, she couldn't see any blood. Maybe he'd missed; maybe they'd shoved his gun out of the way just before he'd got the shot off. Or maybe one of them had shot him and she just couldn't see the blood yet.

Jane tried aiming her own gun, trying to pick one of them off, but it was impossible. They were moving too much, and all three were so close together that she had as much a chance of wounding Weller fatally as she did one of his attackers. She shoved her gun in her holster instead, and was starting to rush forward, thinking she could do more damage with her hands instead, when what felt like ten pairs of arms wrapped around her waist and hauled her way from the fight, and up into the air. She tried to look to see who had grabbed her, tried to punch, to kick, but the second she started to turn, a fist met her temple and her head rang so hard she could barely breathe, let alone fight back.

She felt herself slumping in the multitude of arms, knowing she had to stay conscious but feeling so far from it that the idea was almost laughable. Weller was still struggling on the floor with the two men—no, three, now; where had the third come from?—and though his gun had been wrested from him, he still hadn't given up. Her vision blurred on and off as she watched; she couldn't tell how much time was passing, or where she was going, or how many men there were anymore. One second, there were four, including Weller, and then there were eight, and then twelve, and then four again… She felt her head fall to her chest dully; when her eyes looked down at the floor, she could see her feet dragging against the carpet, but could barely feel them. There was a hand digging in her right ear, to pull her earbud out and destroy it, but she was still too dizzy from the blow to realize what that meant, let alone stop it from happening. All she could focus on was Weller, still on the floor, and she wanted to tell the men struggling with him that it was useless. He'd fight to the death. She had always admired that about him.

"Stop it, or I'll kill her right now."

The first thing Jane registered when she heard the man's voice next to her ear was panic for the woman in question, because she hadn't known there was one here. They had hostages? She hadn't even thought of it. These men were drug runners; she and the team had been following them in accordance with what seemed to be a huge money-laundering scheme linked to a high-ranking New York politician. She hadn't known there were hostages involved. She felt her throat tighten as her vision swam and cleared and swam again. She didn't want to get anyone killed, let alone some innocent woman these men had probably kidnapped, either as blackmail or just because they could. She tried to look around to find the woman…

And then she felt a cold touch on her throbbing temple, and she realized the woman the man was talking about was her. And that he was holding her gun to her head. And that she was about to die; she was just seconds away from dying—

But then she didn't. The gun never fired. She had her eyes closed, awaiting death, but it didn't come for her.

A few seconds later, as if waking from a dream, she opened her eyes slowly. She didn't know what she expected to see, but Weller standing there across the room from her, his hands up, his weapons taken, surrounded by three men with guns pointed at his head, was not it. She stared at the sight, frowning, not able to compute it, because she had never seen this before: never seen him so completely powerless, whether voluntarily or not. She had never seen him stare at her with this much blatant pain and fear on his face, like the end was coming to them right now, and there was not one thing in the world they could do to stop it.

Even during all their close calls—the most recent one being when they surrendered to Rich Dotcom and his goons—Jane had always known that they weren't really giving up. She had always been able to look at his face, been able to see his mind working, and she'd always known that they'd find a way out, no matter what. They'd do it together, like usual. But this time, the look on his face, the fear in his eyes… It was all telling her that there will be no getting out of this, that it was in fact already over.

She wanted to ask him what it was that made him think that, what it was that made him give up and surrender so quickly, when she felt it, and she understood. All it took was one second, and she knew why Weller was looking at her the way he was. She knew why he'd stopped fighting, and why he'd allowed three guns to be pointed straight at his head, without a single weapon of his own within reach to defend himself.

She felt the man's breath first, heavy and hot against her neck; his hand came second, slipping beneath the armor of her flak jacket, rubbing against her waist, her abdomen, and then lower. She could feel his hand slipping to the front of her legs, and though she tried to edge away from it, the man's hold on her was too tight. Full consciousness was coming back to her fast, and she knew at once if she moved too quickly trying to fight back, the pressure he was putting on her arms would surely break one of them. And she knew instinctively, in the deepest, most basic part of herself that the memory wipe hadn't been able to touch, that it wasn't worth it. That to fight back right now would mean she would end up dead. And she also knew that the second she realized that, and succumbed to that truth, the man holding her, touching her, had already won.

"Damn," the man whispered, his voice low, darkly appreciative, as he tucked his chin on her shoulder, "I would've let myself get picked up by the FBI a long while ago, if I knew they were sending agents out that looked like you to bring me in."

"We're here to arrest you." Jane tried to sound brave and smart and in-control as she said the words, but they just ended up coming out weak and shaky. She could feel his cheek brushing past hers, and the fine stubble on it made her tremble.

"Oh, really?" She could hear the man behind her smile, even though she couldn't see his face. "And how's that going so far, honey? You think you're gonna walk out of here with me in handcuffs?" A few of the men on the other side of the room laughed, and Jane closed her eyes, not wanting to see them just as much as she didn't want to see the man behind her. But he will not be avoided or forgotten, especially not by his newest captive. She could feel his lips against her ear; his teeth scraping her skin. His hand moving toward the juncture of her thighs. "I'd rather put you in handcuffs, actually."

"Don't fucking touch her."

Miraculously, the man's hand stilled against her at Weller's order, and Jane closed her eyes, letting go a breath of relief. It didn't last long.

"Well, now… This one is awfully protective of you, now, isn't he?" the man asked, hooking his chin over her shoulder to hold her firmly in place. "Tell me, is he your boyfriend? Is that why he's so tense, so noble, standing there with his hands up like it'll protect you?"

Weller took a half-step forward, snarling, "You said—"

"I said I wouldn't kill her," the man replied calmly, shifting backwards and dragging Jane with him, an arm around her middle, as the three men with guns shifted around Weller, always keeping him in their sighs. "Didn't say I wouldn't do anything else." The man grinned against the back of her neck, and Jane tensed, waiting for whatever was going to happen next, whatever he was going to do to her. But he was quiet for a moment, his hands remaining still against her. Jane focused on her breaths, and tried to ignore the lack of feeling in her arms, tried to think of any way at all that she could get them both out of this.

Weller was still standing in the middle of the room, his hands no longer raised in surrender but curled into fists at his side, and his whole body taunt, just waiting for the moment to rush forward. Jane wished she could find a silent way to tell him it wasn't worth it. He'd be riddled with bullets before he could even take two steps, let alone reach her and disarm the man holding her.

"What's it you cops are always telling me to do? 'Down on your knees, hands on your head'? That sound about right, agent?"

The man's cronies, surrounding Weller, cracked smiles and chuckled at their boss's joke. Weller didn't move.

"You want her to survive, you'll do as I say. Now, get on your knees, or she'll be on hers first."

The man's voice was hard, commanding, and there was a long, tense moment after he spoke in which no one moved. Jane hardly even breathed; she just waited, suspended, knowing that whoever made the next move would seal her fate.

And then Weller closed his eyes, and put his hands on the back of his head.

"Fine," he muttered, forcing the words out as much as Jane had to force herself to keep breathing. "Fine."

He was just starting to lower himself to his knees when one of the men behind him swept his legs out from under him violently, and he went crashing to the ground with a low groan. This set the men off on another round of laughing, and Jane could feel the adrenaline in the room as they shoved him down further, onto his stomach, using their feet and hands like the brute weapons they were. Jane was only starting to realize that they'd probably never had a pair of law enforcement officials at their mercy like this. She and Weller would stand in for all those with badges who these men had come in contact with over the years. And, together, she and Weller would pay for every injustice they'd suffered, real or imagined.

When Weller didn't go down immediately, one of the men whacked him across the side of the head with the butt of his own gun, and he dropped straight down, collapsing as if he'd been killed by just one blow. Jane gasped, terrified, because even though she knew he couldn't be dead, not from a hit like that, he could still be unconscious, and unconscious was bad enough. If he was gone, out of the picture, then she knew she had no hope at all for survival. Maybe she could get away from this man, the one with his hands on her, but she couldn't get past the three others with guns, standing between her and the door. Not without Weller to help her take them out. She stared, waiting, watching, begging him silently not to be gone yet, praying that he wouldn't leave her like this so quickly—

And then he picked his head up, and Jane had sucked in a breath at the sight of him: the blow he'd taken to the head had torn open a huge gash on his forehead, and the blood was flowing fast and freely now, down the side of his face and into a dark stain on the carpet. Jane searched for his eyes, desperate to know if he was okay, even though she knew he wasn't and likely would never be. But he didn't look at her. Instead, he propped his chin up on the carpet, and lifted his eyes past Jane as if she wasn't there, to rest on the man behind her.

The men clustered around Weller chuckled at the miniature act of defiance, and Jane could feel the satisfaction of the man behind her, in the way his arms tightened around her even further. She tried to stifle a gasp at the shot of pain that ran up her arm at his adjusted grip, but it wasn't to be held in. She felt her chin start to shake, no longer at the pain she felt, but at the pain she knew was to come, because she could feel the man's hand moving again. It was creeping its way along her hip, skimming beneath her flack jacket and her tanktop as it followed the hem of her jeans. He was moving slow, incredibly slow, and she wanted to scream aloud at him to just get it over with already. Just finish this, so she can be killed or left for dead or whatever it is men like this do with women after they've had their fill.

But had an audience here, a captive too, and he wasn't going to rush anything. He was going to explore her, torture her, millimeter by millimeter, in order to drag it out as long as humanly possible for everyone involved. Jane felt her chin start to shake, at the realization that this could go on all day. All night. This might never end, not if the man holding her didn't want it to.

His hand moved past the button of her jeans, over the zipper, moving ever slowly downward, and she shrank from it as it moved between her thighs, forcing a space there that should not be there. She shrank from his invasive touch again out of instinct, out of inborn fear, but there was nowhere to go. Nowhere to move except back into him, and even as she knew it was counterintuitive, she did it, because she would do anything to get away from this hell of him touching her, even if it landed her in another, worse kind of hell.

The man chuckled into her ear as she backed up into him, taking the only exit he allowed. "Do you like that?" he asked, clutching her close to him so he could press himself against her. "Does that feel good?"

She didn't bother responding, and though she knew better, she couldn't help but struggle against his hold on her, desperate to get away even if it would only end up making him angrier, or more excited. She couldn't take this any more, couldn't handle his hands on her, his body around hers, all those men watching—

And Kurt.

Because he was still staring up at them. He still had his chin propped up on the floor, his hands on his head, had his eyes focused on what was playing out before him, and she knew, whatever happened, he wouldn't stop watching. Because he stopped watching once, twenty-five years ago, and a little girl went missing right under his nose. He stopped paying attention for just a moment, and she paid the price for it. So he'll watch to the end, even if it meant he'd have to watch this.

She wanted to scream at him to stop. To just bury his head in that carpet, and forget about her, because clearly there's nothing either of them can do anymore, to save each other. But she couldn't speak. Because that man's hands were still on her, and despite all she had been through, in the past few months and in the past few minutes, she had never felt this vulnerable and weak before. Even when they'd been imaging her tattoos, and she'd stood stark naked in a room and let every inch of her skin be catalogued into a national database, she hadn't been this scared. Even when they'd marched her to and from interrogation rooms that first day, and taken her gown on and off as if she weren't a real person underneath it, she hadn't felt this used.

And in all her time in the field, all the danger she has been faced with, nothing had ever before felt the way this did. She had never feared bullets or fists or knives the way she feared this man's hands on her, and Kurt laying there, being made to watch.

The fear made her want to cry, to scream.

It made her want to die.

And from the look in his eyes, she knew he must be feeling the same way. Because she could see it. As hard as he was trying to focus on that man's face, and block the rest out, his gaze kept drifting down to the man's hand, following it to places no one but she had ever touched. She wished Weller weren't here watching this, wished he didn't feel obligated to save her from this. If it were Tasha or Rodgers or Reade or Patterson or Mayfair with her instead; if it were anyone else in the world—

But not him. She could take anyone but him watching this.

Because despite what was happening, what was going to happen, she could still remember what it had felt like when he had smiled at her, just outside the door of this apartment, just five minutes ago. She could remember the way he'd grinned at her when they left the locker room this morning, each of them silently amused at their own attraction to each other, and relieved at the other's reciprocation. She could remember the warmth and the interest in his eyes, as they'd looked at each other across the lockers, alone and half-dressed, and how she had wanted him in that moment. And how she had known he'd wanted her back.

Well, he won't be wanting her after this is over, she knew. Pending she's allowed to live—probably unlikely—and pending he's allowed to live—definitely unlikely—she knew things couldn't go back to the way they'd been, before. He'll have seen too much. She'll have taken too much.

Perhaps that was what made him say it. Because he knew this might be the only chance to save what little they had left between them, even if it was just their lives and nothing else.

"Jane, look at me. Listen to me. Tasha will help you through this. Okay? She will help you, I promise."

Jane closed her eyes against his words, and felt her whole body start to shake under the touch of the other man's hands as they become rougher, and more insistent. What the hell was Weller trying to tell her? That Tasha had been raped? She hadn't asked to hear that. She hadn't wanted to know that. Jane felt her breath starting to come fast, too fast, as her heart pounded painfully in her chest. Tears filled her eyes and then spilled over, and she was powerless to stop them or even wipe them away. So he was really giving up then, she thought, if he was talking like this. Finally, he was giving up, and it was going to happen. And neither of them would be able to do anything to stop it. He'll lay there and watch and she'll be held down and they'll both be put through this, made all the worse because they'll be together while it happens. She shut her eyes—against him, against the reality coming for her, against the fact that even if these men don't end up killing her after they've had her, she'll still have to live with this memory, still have to carry this moment with her whenever and wherever she goes…

"Jane."

Weller's voice was tearing now, aching for her to listen, but she refused to heed it, refused to open her eyes and look at him. This will be bad enough, without his eyes on her. Why does he have to speak, too, and remind her that he's here to witness this? Can't he just keep his mouth shut? She wished she could forget he's here, could forget everything, and just get it over with already.

But just like the man behind her, Weller won't let her forget what's happening here.

"Jane, come on, listen—"

"Shut up already," one of the men snarled on the far side of the room, kicking Weller hard in the side a few times. He crumpled further onto the ground, his groan of pain accompanied by the laughter from his torturers as he curled onto his side, cradling what Jane knew could very well be be a broken rib or two, if that man had hit hard enough. And he probably had. The sound of Weller's pain had forced her eyes open, and he met them, finding her through the blood and the torment, as the cut on his forehead continued to bleed, staining his face and clothes as well as the carpet.

"Jane, goddamn it, listen to me—"

It was all he he could get out before one of the other men snapped, yelling at him to keep his goddamn mouth shut, and the first one reared his leg back, and then slammed the toe of his boot, hard, into Weller's face. Jane gasped aloud, the sound tearing from her as his nose exploded with blood and an audible crunch of cartilage and bone could be heard breaking into pieces as he moaned in pain and clutched at his face.

But still, he found her eyes from the ground, his own begging with her, huge and scared, as he tried to push himself back up, tried to find breath amidst the blood. "Tasha," he gritted out, even as one of the men put a foot down on his back, forcing him down, and grabbed one of his hands and laid it flat on the floor. "Remember Tasha, Jane! Remember—" He gasped then, and then screamed, louder than she'd ever heard, as one of the men lifted his foot and then slammed it back down onto Weller's spread hand once, twice, three times. Again and again. For a second, all Jane could hear was the sound of his bones breaking, and the shouts of him taking it, and her not being able to do a thing, not a single thing except watch, and she began to think that this was worse; watching him be hurt like this had to be worse than whatever this man behind her was going to do to her because this is torture, truly, and if she could only save him, she would—

And then it clicked. What he was trying to say. What he'd risked his life to say.

She had a way to save him, a way to save both of them.

Tasha.

She was stationed in the adjacent building across the way; she couldn't help them—not unless their enemies were standing directly in front of a window. Weller and the men attacking him were protected by a solid wall; she wouldn't be any help there. But Jane had windows on either side of her, just a couple feet away to her right and left. And the man holding her had her gun. If Tasha could take him down, she could get her gun from him and help Kurt, and—

"Please," she whispered, lifting her eyes from Kurt's bloodied form to the men towering above him. "Please don't hurt him. I'll do—" She swallowed hard, forcing herself to unclench her fists that were pinned behind her back, forcing herself to reach behind and touch the man standing behind her. His body was hard and firm against her, and it surged forward beneath her fingertips. "I'll do whatever you want, just leave him alone."

The two seconds it took for the man to reply seemed to stretch on into eternity. Jane could feel her heart pounding, faster now because she knew that whatever happened next, good or bad, she could still very easily die today. She could feel her throat sticking, tight and painful, because even though she wasn't looking Kurt in the face, she could imagine how much blood he had lost, how much pain he must be in. And this was the only way to stop it. If it didn't work—

"Knew you'd come around." The man is triumphant behind her, his grin almost audible, and then tactile, as he pressed his face into her neck. "The pretty ones always do, eventually."

Jane swallowed, hard, not trusting herself to have anything to say to that. His felt his face at her neck still, his mouth on her skin now, and she had to force herself not to pay attention to it. Forced herself to, instead, think of a way to get him to move her, past at least one of the windows, and to pause in front of it, long enough so that Tasha could figure out what was going on, long enough so that she could make the shot that might save them all. She stared down at Kurt, bleeding and broken on the ground, and figured he was as good an excuse as any.

"Please," she whispered, turning her head towards the man's face, hoping to steer his attention away from where it was currently centered. "Please, just—"

But she didn't have time to get another word out, because the second his lips lifted from her neck, they crashed onto her mouth, and all she could taste and feel was his mouth on hers, rough and ugly and forceful. His tongue tasted of beer and cigarettes and something else foul, and it made her gag against him when he shoved it into her mouth, and began taking parts of her as his in earnest now.

She was panting from the pain of holding her breath when he finally let up. "Please," she gasped, hoping he was the type that liked to hear women beg for mercy before he raped them, "Please, just—not where he can see, okay? Just—Just do it over there."

The man stared back at her for a long moment—for an hour, it felt like—and then he laughed. "What makes you think you get to make the rules anymore?" he asked, and then he started tearing through the velcro on her flak jacket, and she felt the terror overtake her again, because if he did this right here, right now, there was no way Tasha would ever see it, and be able to shoot him. There was no way either she or Kurt would get out of here alive. The man was already done ripping through half the straps on her flak jacket, his hands were moving too fast, and she couldn't think; she couldn't think of a single thing to do to convince him to move towards a window without arousing suspicion. She struggled against him, trying to slow him down, but that only made him more eager, made the men surrounding Kurt laugh in appreciation and excitement, and it wasn't until she was physically holding her jacket down with her hands to her to keep him from continuing that she realized—

He had let her go.

In his haste to rid her of her bulky armor, and her clothes, and whatever else that might keep her from him, he'd let her arms go. She could feel them, numb and weak and de-oxygenated from his vice-like hold, but they were still there, they were a part of her, and she could move them. So she did the first thing she could think of with them: she elbowed him hard from both sides, and then took off running towards the far side of the apartment.

She didn't get very far.

But then again, she hadn't wanted to get very far. Just two feet, three, would be enough.

She was just moving past the far frame of the window when he recovered, and snarled a hand in her hair, his grip so tight as he yanked her back to him that she couldn't have held in the scream of pain even if she'd wanted to. The other hand wrapped around her waist, holding her hard against him as he pinned her arms between them again, his body bending forward against hers, forcing her into submission by the sheer force of his weight on top of hers. But that wasn't enough, of course; she could feel that hand of his again, forcing its way to her front, past her clothes, beneath her underwear, inside her—

And then his voice, hot in ear, teasing, grinning: "Oh, come on. Why you so dry for me, baby?"

She turned her head away from his voice, away from his words, and stared out the window, searching desperately for Tasha. They were within range now, she knew it. Once she turned to the side, and put the man's back to the window, Tasha would have a clear shot.

If she was even still over there, and still looking their way.

Jane swallowed, a different kind of panic overtaking her now, different from the fear she felt as this man shoved his fingers inside her. She hadn't thought about what would happen if Tasha wasn't across the way to save them. From the moment Kurt had told her the plan, she'd believed it was all she had to do. Just get this man within range of Tasha's rifle, and Tasha would do the rest. But if she had abandoned her post, if she had had to go down to street level to help out Rodgers with that runner…

Then she, Jane, will be dead. Kurt will be dead.

The thought blindsided her-the idea that all of this could be worth nothing-and for a moment, she just went completely still. The fear had pushed so far forward into the front of her mind that she couldn't think, let alone act, and it wasn't until the man was speaking to her again, his lips brushing her cheek as he leaned into her, that she remembered fear could be good, and that it didn't have to make you powerless unless you allowed it to.

"You gonna stop fighting now, then?"

The man sounded amused, and she could hear him laugh softly, as she let herself go even more limp in his arms, let him think she'd finally given up. The tears, the weak noises of anguish, that ripped their way out of her throat were not hard to manufacture, and she released them as she turned her head away from the window, turned as far as it would go, until she could see Kurt and the other men again, and her body was half-twisted away from the glass.

"Aw…" The man's voice was heavy, goading in her ear. "You want one last look at him, do you? How sweet."

She didn't bother lying. If Tasha wasn't around, then yes, she did want one last look at Kurt. She wanted so much more than that-she wanted that moment in the locker room again, and she wanted him to smile at her as she made him laugh, and she wanted that wanting look in his eyes, and all the kindness she knew would come with it, and none of the violence she had suffered today. But she didn't have time for any of that. One look was all she had, and so she took it. She turned to the side, away from the window, feeling the man move with her, and as much as she wanted to close her eyes, she kept them open, staring into Kurt's, waiting, hoping, praying—

It was the softest noise. Just a little Zip! racing through the air, slicing through the pane of glass behind them without even shattering it, and then the man wasn't touching her anymore, he wasn't even alive anymore, and Jane didn't wait, not for a second. Before he even had a chance to fall to the ground, she'd grabbed her gun from his waistband, and before a single person in the room could react, she started shooting.

x x x

Author's Note: This story was supposed to be just one chapter, a quick one-shot. But you guys know me; I couldn't help myself from making it way too damn long. Leave me your thoughts below and I'll have the next (and hopefully final) part up sometime soon. Thank you for reading.

PS - I sincerely, sincerely apologize if the tenses are screwed up in this. I rewrote this story two full different times trying to fix the tenses (as I'd begun by writing certain scenes in past and certain in present), and though I've re-read it at least ten times, I know a few moments might've gotten by me. I truly apologize if it took away from the reading.