Paving the Road to Hell
She thought she'd learned by now to always check the safe house before starting to undress for a shower, even if it was just a quick walkthrough and glance at the windows and door. It just figures that, the second Jane lets down her guard and dismissively assumes that the danger has passed, she's paid another unwelcome visit from a mysterious visitor.
Jane had just tossed her nightclothes into the hamper, ready to shower before making her way to headquarters, when déjà vu struck. Suddenly arms tried to wrap around her from behind, commanding, "Shhhh!"
"Again?!" she mutters in disbelief, while her body is already in fierce motion. Every time she's drawn into combat (which has been altogether too often, since her rescue in Times Square and subsequent adoption into the FBI team), she marvels anew at her body seemingly functioning on autopilot, an almost out-of-body experience, triggered like clockwork upon provocation.
With his every attempted strike and hold, her arms block and counterstrike automatically. Her fighting stance, hands protecting her face, feet staggered, center of gravity low, seems to have been drilled into her as if from years of rote practice. Her eyes actively seek an opening for a hit, punch or kick. The thinking part of her brain seems to have been replaced with base animal instinct, two steps ahead of her opponent, calculating angles and possible maneuvers, all the while running down a list of nearby objects to pull into the fight: Chair? Too heavy and clumsy. Water glass? Maybe, after it's smashed and gifts her with cutting edges. The overly large wooden pepper mill given to her as a well-meaning housewarming gift from Patterson? …That will work.
She spins away from the intruder, snaps up the pepper mill, and proceeds to smash it against his face, ribs, and neck in quick succession. He backs away, gasping. "No! Wait! Stop! I just wanted to talk!"
Jane backs a safe distance away, behind the kitchen counter, still brandishing the pepper mill (she'd have to remember to thank Patterson profusely the next time she sees her). "Then talk!" she spits, catching her breath. "Why does everyone seem to think it's a great idea to sneak up on me?!" Especially when I'm undressing for a frakking shower!
She realizes, at that point, who her morning visitor is, and her stomach twists, unsure of how and what to feel. She sets the pepper mill down without fanfare. "Oscar," she states flatly. "I suppose you made it past my detail because, A. They're looking for me to come out, and not people coming in; or, B. That just what you and people like you do."
He looks sheepish and deflated, running his hand over his close-cropped hair. "Well, yeah. That's pretty much it." He touches his lip, bleeding due to the pepper mill, and closes his eyes briefly as if to refocus.
Jane folds her arms across her stomach, starting to feel entirely too bare, in her sport bra and boyshorts. "Well? Is there a reason you're here?" she demands. She's still on edge, adrenaline flowing, and wants to harness that energy, keeping the fear, dread, and questions at bay.
"There are some questions that you should have answers to, at this point," he finally responds, leaning against the wall, bleeding lip ignored. "In order to better carry out your mission."
At headquarters, a well-dressed man leans over Bethany Mayfair's desk, muttering something in her ear. She nods at him, closing her portfolio, and stands. "I need to take this," she remarks crisply, and the man sitting across from her understands that he's been dismissed for the moment.
"Everything okay?" Weller questions, standing up to exit.
"An old matter," she waves it off. "Nothing for you to worry about."
He isn't convinced, but he won't press the issue at the moment. He figures he'll check up on it later, still unwilling to blindly trust his boss. Kurt makes his rounds, joking with Reade, and exchanging sarcastic morning pleasantries with Zapata. She's still on her first cup of black coffee, and thus liable to injure anyone that pushes her buttons too carelessly at this dangerous morning juncture.
He visits Patterson last, discomfited all over again by the photos of Jane's body and tattoos plastered and displayed on every surface. Since they'd recently…grown closer (he supposes he can cover several stolen moments' worth of earthshattering kisses under that auspice) he's found his protectiveness of this strange and exotic woman increasing exponentially. What a violation it must be, to have your body on display for all the world to see, and for technicians to pore over, detached, as if it wasn't the skin of a living, breathing woman.
Patterson, however, was not detached in the slightest, her bubbly manner nearly returned to normal levels, months after David's death. She greeted Kurt, nearly bouncing with excitement over a potentially decoded tattoo. "Good morning! Have you seen Jane yet? I NEED to show her this one…I can't believe I didn't put it together before!"
He realizes that it is, in fact, unusually late; Jane is usually one of the first ones to arrive at headquarters. His brow furrows in concern. "No…I'll call her."
Before he can pull out his phone, Patterson is dialing Jane from a program on her computer, frowning. "That's strange. Why wouldn't it…"she mutters, starting to type furiously, trailing off.
"Patterson. Words, please," Weller reminds her, concern starting to take root. She shakes her head at him, absently falling back into her seat, pulling herself in closer, continuing to type and click. He hovers over her, rising anxiety palpable.
She bites her lip with worry, turning toward him. "Kurt, she didn't answer. And I noticed that her panic button was pressed, which should also activate the intercom, but it looks like there's some interference. And…the interference seems to be on our part." She clasps her hands, twisting them in her lap. Patterson has an inkling, and it doesn't bode well for Weller's state of mind.
"Wait, what? What does that even mean?" he demands, coiled and ready to spring into action.
"We are listening to her, most likely from another planted device, one that's interfering with the intercom," Patterson states, looking down. "We, as in, the FBI." Before she can speak another word, Weller is cursing under his breath, striding away from her with furious purpose.
"Well?" Jane prompts Oscar. "What is it I need to know? How about, am I Taylor Shaw? What's with the tattoos? Why was my memory wiped? And who the hell are you?" She feels some satisfaction at his visibly stung reaction to her last question. She isn't ready to let him know that she has some hazy memories of him; instead wants to see what he reveals.
"Taylor Shaw? Essentially, yes, you're her," he responds, smirking as if recalling a private joke. "You're her enough. But that's not why I'm here today. In general terms, we used to serve together, and we learned some things that just didn't sit well with us. Didn't sit well with you, especially. By then you'd more than earned our trust, earned our devotion," he bites out, bitterly.
"There had to be some way to enlist the help of those who worked outside the shadows, like your FBI 'friends', too good and pure for this world," Oscar continues, lip curling in a sneer, eyes distant and unfocused as he leans against the wall, arms crossed. "Emails can be corrupted. Paper can be shredded and burned. CDs and thumb drives can be destroyed. Inconvenient truth-tellers will usually just disappear, or wind up in pieces in the woods. But a woman that doesn't exist, covered in strange tattoos, with the name of your Scooby Gang member in a prominent spot? Pretty damn impossible to ignore."
Kurt was pointed toward Mayfair's location, the junior agent backing away at the murderous expression in his eyes. He recognized where he was going, down a little-used hallway full of small offices, usually ignored. Usually his team didn't deal with the electronics monitoring, the bug planting; they were men and women of action, the strike force. Usually, his team didn't have illicit devices planted in their living quarters. Certainly, Mayfair heading this direction just prior to Patterson's discovery could have just been a coincidence. He was finding, though, that he just didn't believe in coincidences anymore.
Incandescent with rage, he burst into the designated room, throwing the door open with barely controlled force. "What the HELL—" he begins to roar, but is silenced immediately when he recognizes her voice. He'd know it anywhere, in any crowd. Jane.
Mayfair looks at him reproachfully, and he sits on the nearest desk with a dull thud. It takes a moment for him to focus on Jane's words, swimming through his dumbfounded brain.
"…Who the hell are you?" Jane sounds testy.
"Taylor Shaw? Essentially, yes, you're her." A man's voice, speaking to Jane. Kurt makes swift, slightly crazed plans to destroy him, whoever it is that's broken in to her safe house. He files away the implications of the man's phrasing for later perusal. "You're her enough. But that's not why I'm here today. In general terms, we used to serve together, and we learned some things that just didn't sit well with us. Didn't sit well with you, especially. By then you'd more than earned our trust, earned our devotion."
"There had to be some way to enlist the help of those who worked outside the shadows, like your FBI 'friends', too good and pure for this world. Emails can be corrupted. Paper can be shredded and burned. CDs and thumb drives can be destroyed. Inconvenient truth-tellers will usually just disappear, or wind up in pieces in the woods. But a woman that doesn't exist, covered in strange tattoos, with the name of your Scooby Gang member in a prominent spot? Pretty damn impossible to ignore."
"Always the brilliant tactician…always ten steps ahead of everyone else. You don't remember anymore, but that's what made me love you. Anyway. I've probably said too much already, and others may be listening. Catch you later."
It abruptly dawns on Kurt that this must be the 'Oscar' that Jane finally admitted to earlier, before the New Year. Even as the urge to punch Oscar rises, Kurt's mind whirs, making the connections.
"…that's what made me love you—"
Jane had mentioned to him, during the Rich Dotcom sting, that she'd been having memories about a possible past engagement. Was it Oscar? Did she remember him? Did she see his face in her flashbacks? Had she recognized him when he'd saved her from Carter's clutches?
Kurt realizes with a start that Mayfair is speaking to him. "Are you happy that you followed me in here?" she asks with dry sarcasm. "Ignorance can be bliss."
"We should tell her that we're doing this," he responds in measured tones, fighting to control his torrid emotions.
"Absolutely not," she flatly counters, rising to leave; the technicians had apparently left earlier, while Kurt was in thrall to his thoughts. "Make sure Patterson gets the message, too." With a raised eyebrow, she leaves him in the now-silent room, alone with his ruminations.
A/N: Bear with me, as this was written while I was stranded and slightly jetlagged during a delayed layover in Minneapolis. I did not science the shit out of Patterson's discovery of the bug due to intercom interference…do temporarily suspend your disbelief. :)
This scene is yet another part of the larger post- S01E11 arc I'm working on; my other stories fall within that universe as well.
Prompt: "Bleeding", Tumblr Blindspot Fandom #BSHiatusFics challenge. Thanks again to countryole, takethisnight-wrapitaroundme, and charmingnotdarling for the magnificent idea!