Chapter 10: Cold

Kurt and Jane had been traveling for days. They checked several more locations from Hark's list. There were a few places engaged in illegal trade, but nothing that jogged any of Jane's memories or involved children. If there was no evidence of abuse, they moved on to the next site, relaying the findings to Hark so he could inform local authorities if he saw fit. Kurt knew it was best to avoid making unnecessary enemies whenever possible because they had no legal authority there.

Kurt called his sister to check in, and both she and Sawyer were thrilled to talk to him. He and Jane listened to his nephew as he excitedly talked about his new school and friends, and it was a relief to know the boy was adapting. It was clear, though, that he greatly missed his uncle.

Once Sarah was on the phone, he talked to her, avoiding the subject of Jane because he didn't want his sister to be interrogated if news should get out. "Are you alright?" she asked after she finished updating him on the news in her life.

"I'm good," he replied.

"Why did you really call?"

"I can't call to check in?"

"Of course you can. I wish you would more often. But I have a feeling there's another reason for this chat."

"Do you remember anything strange about me during my early twenties? Weird behavior, something I said that seemed out of place or maybe I was out of touch?" he asked.

"You were deployed most of the time, so you were usually out of touch."

"Anything else? Anything out of the ordinary?"

"Well…I mean…no."

"You hesitated," he accused.

"There was that girl."

"What girl?"

"Is this some kind of joke?" she asked, worriedly. "Are you in trouble?"

"No," he argued, "I'm really fine. Why would you think it's a joke?"

"The last time I mentioned her, right after your last deployment, you acted like you had no idea what I was talking about."

"I did?"

"It was before Sawyer. You were gone for a while, probably your longest stretch away from home."

"How long?"

"I don't know. At least a year, probably a little longer. It all blends together. I'm sure I have some of your old letters and emails around here somewhere."

"Can you find them?"

"I'll look," she replied.

"Tell me what you remember."

"You had a thing with some woman you were serving with. It sounded really serious."

"You remember a name?"

"God, Kurt, I don't know. You don't remember her name? You were like…completely in to her. That was the first girl you dated that I thought you might marry. How is it possible you don't remember her name?"

"It's complicated," he answered, disappointedly. "Anything else? Did I tell you anything about what happened to her?"

"When you finally came home, I asked about her and you said you had no idea what I was talking about. You got really angry, so I assumed you broke up and didn't want to talk about it. That's kinda the way you handle things. What is this all about?"

"I'm not sure," he admitted. "But I'm going to find out. Is there anything else you remember about her? Her family, her background. Anything?"

"Are you trying to find her?"

"Sort of," he replied.

"Oh my god. Is my big brother still in love after all these years?" she excitedly asked. "I would love to see you settle down. Sawyer needs cousins to play with at Christmas."

"Like I said, it's complicated. Anything you can remember would be great."

"There was something weird…she was from somewhere in South Africa…near Johannesburg, I think."

"Are you sure?" he questioned, interestedly.

"I think. It was so long ago, but it stuck out. I remembered thinking it was strange that she was in the American Armed Forces but was born in another country. I wondered why she moved so far from home, but I never got to ask."

"Thanks, Sarah. That's helpful."

"Don't be a stranger," she demanded.

"I won't. We'll talk soon."

He hung up, and grabbed Hark's list of places for them to visit. He looked at Jane and said, "Change of plans. We need to mark this list for all of the places in or around Johannesburg."

On the way to Johannesburg, they stayed in a cramped little hotel room where there was barely enough room to walk around the bed. Kurt had fallen asleep, and Jane was snuggled next to him. At least the air conditioning worked at this place. He'd been dreaming restlessly since his talk with his sister, and Jane was starting to wonder if she should wake him up.

He mumbled in his sleep and then something made his body jerk as he woke. His eyes were wide and he looked terrified. "Remy!" he shouted, arguing with whatever terrible vision had entered his brain.

"Who's Remy?" Jane asked.

He wiped the sweat from his forehead, sitting up and adding, "I think you are."

"Are you sure? Maybe it was just a dream, Kurt," she said, rubbing his back.

"Maybe," he said with disbelief, "but it felt pretty real to me. We were working special ops together and it sure as hell wasn't Afghanistan or any other place I was supposed to be stationed. They were trying to kill you. I heard myself call you Remy." He got up, darting naked around the tiny room to get his bag.

"What are you doing?"

"Let's go," he said with the excitement of an investigator who'd found a long awaited lead. "Jane, we didn't just know each other in the past. We were really in love. I could feel it. Something or someone took you away from me and stole my memories of you. I want to know who took you from me and robbed us of all of those years we could have had together. I want to know what happened. We have a name and a location. That's a hell of a lot more than we had yesterday."

—March 2003-Secret US Military Training Camp somewhere in Eastern Europe—

Remy and Kurt became friends, to say the least. They spent the majority of their free time together, and most of their working hours, too. They often trained and ate together, and when the squad ran missions, he almost always selected her to pair off with him. Most of the men were out one afternoon, all claiming to be "training" when they were probably going to a nearby town for recreation. She saw that he'd received a letter, and brought it to him in the barracks.

Tossing it on his chest, she sat at the end of his bunk and said, "Doesn't your sister have any other friends?"

"You know how it is…once you've met me, all other friends seem like a waste of time," he joked.

"You're ridiculous," she chuckled. He seemed to be able to make her smile more and more. Although she was still extraordinarily guarded, when they were alone, she seemed to drop her defenses a little.

He watched her take a note out of her pocket and unfold it. "So…your boyfriend finally misses you enough to write?"

She smirked, knowing that he was fishing for personal information. "Do you honestly think a woman like me would have a boyfriend waiting at home?"

"Why wouldn't you? What does that mean, a 'woman like you'?" he asked, a little startled.

"I'm…me. You know how it is. Almost everyone here is just a genetic predisposition away from being a sociopath. I mean, we're not sociopaths, but we've been fucked over, worn down and beaten enough that we're as close to emotionless as they can safely have us. We're all damaged. Ruiz saw his girlfriend tortured and killed. Owens' parents and sister were murdered when he was a kid, Johnson was held in captivity for three years. Everyone here has a reason to fight, and has seen enough to already be a little dead inside. They picked a specific type of person. What about you? Why do you belong here?"

They'd talked about things often, but carefully avoided anything really personal. Before answering her question, he challenged her to answer his, "You first. Who's the letter from?"

She pondered for just a second, skimming the note. Finally she answered, "My mother."

"So you're not a cyborg?"

"To settle the bet some of the guys have going, I am actually a real human being," she joked back. Turning more serious, she asked, "So…what's your story? What messed you up enough to be one of our group?"

"I lost a friend. Someone I was supposed to be responsible for. I was a kid, but old enough that I should have been able to look out for her. I failed."

"What happened to her?" Remy pressed, showing a clear interest in whatever had made him into the man he was.

For a moment, he thought about forcing her to answer a question, but it actually felt good to talk to someone. He wanted this friendship, or whatever it was, to be personal, and he guessed he'd have to earn her trust first. "Officially, she's missing, now presumed dead. I think my father killed her…I'm pretty much positive that he killed her. Maybe he did more than just kill her, I don't know. There's this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach every time I think about it. There was never proof, and he got away with it. I hate him for it. It destroyed my family."

"Oh god," she said sincerely. "Kurt, I'm sorry. Did the cops suspect you?"

"If they did, it wasn't for long. I was really destroyed. The cops, hell everyone, told me I was just a kid, and I shouldn't be too hard on myself but—"

"You still felt responsible. I get that," she answered.

He wasn't crying, but stared ahead at the end of the bed just past her, and he was sure she knew how much this still hurt. He didn't want to play this game of discovery anymore, because opening his old wounds hurt too much. "You want to go a few rounds in the gym or take a run?" he asked, changing the subject, hoping that conditioning would numb the pain.

He stood and stretched, ready to go. "I could use a good fight," she answered, and he didn't argue. As she was lacing up her shoes, she said, completely unprovoked, "I was born in South Africa...in Jozi. My mother was born wealthy, lived in a really nice suburb. My father was born in a neighboring division everyone called 'Gomorrah' because of the living conditions. Mom began researching the inequities of her country, learned about Apartheid, and she was enraged. They met when they both joined the same anti-Apartheid group. They were murdered for trying to bring freedom and equality to the oppressed. The letter was actually from the woman who raised my brother and me. She adopted us. I understand that feeling of responsibility. I've always felt responsible for my little brother, even though I was just a kid too, it was my job to help him survive. No matter how hard I tried, he still went through hell. People like you and me…we take that shit very seriously."

Kurt nodded, trying not to appear shocked, because she never shared anything personal if she could avoid it, but suddenly she cracked open an entire chunk of her past and laid it before him. It felt like she was really starting to trust him. "Why'd you tell me that?" he wondered.

"Because you need to feel like someone understands you," she answered, putting her hand on his shoulder.

She was always so distant, but he could feel how much she cared when she dropped that barrier even a little. He actually felt a stab of pain in his chest at all of the buried memories.

"I also believe," she added, "that you won't tell anyone anything I tell you. I'm counting on it."

He looked at her, his eyes heavy and soulful, and he said, "You can trust me. Anything between us stays between us. I swear."

They stayed like that for what felt like an eternity. Kurt wanted to hold her, to touch her for a moment and disappear from the pain of the world. Then, she suddenly jabbed him in the stomach and said, with a playful smile, "Last one to the gym makes dinner…better hope I win."

She ran off, and he wasn't far behind. He ran into the gym, didn't see her in the ring, and immediately realized she must have been hiding. "Remy?" he called out.

He carefully surveyed the room, knowing this game of hide and seek could leave bruises. He loved sparring and training with her. They'd punch, kick, and wrestle. He loved the closeness of it. And it had become almost playful. She dropped from somewhere above, her eyes alive with an excitement that told him she enjoyed it just as much as he did. She slammed her arm against his chest and knocked him down to the ground.

He hopped up and they traded a few punches and kicks, each blocking the other. They were getting really good at reading each other's next move. Their fight went on for a long time, and in spite of their tiredness, they were smiling. But she caught him off guard, knocking him to the ground yet again.

She started to gloat, until he grabbed her arm and yanked her down on the floor with him. She was always so quick, which evened out his advantage of strength, and in a second she had his arm pulled behind him. "Fuck, my arm," he yelled out in pain.

She immediately let go, the worry evident on her face even though he'd expected her to chastise him for his weakness. Leaning down, looking in his eyes, she said, "I'm sorry. I got carried away."

One moment he was holding his shoulder, his eyebrow furrowed with pain, and the next, completely taking her off guard, he tossed her to the side and pinned her to the ground. He was over her, his hands tightly holding her wrists above her head. "Aww…That's so cute that you were worried about me," he teased. "Better be careful, Remy, I might start to think you don't hate me as much as you hate everyone else."

"You bastard," she chuckled. "Of course you'd have to cheat to beat me."

"You were really worried," he jabbed, "admit it!"

"Never!" she countered.

He was consumed by her beauty, seeing the true smile on her face and hearing her unwilling but honest laugh. His hands moved on their own accord, without the consent of his conscious mind. Leaving her wrists, they moved up to her palms. Her fingers threaded through his, a fact that he didn't realize until her fingertips started tracing gentle lines on his skin.

Her laughter faded as his weight became heavier on her. Their chests both heaved since they were out of breath from laughter and their fight. His thumb started to brush her palm and the side of her hand, and the way she looked into his eyes made his heart squeeze tightly. She lifted her head from the mat, and anticipation shot a jolt of electricity to his groin. He was all too aware of the fact that her hips were against his, their bodies warmer from their exertion, and he knew that if they remained in this position, his desire for her would become perfectly evident. He thought he should pull away, but couldn't seem to make his body move.

She shifted under him, pulling up, but the effect was friction that did nothing to ease the pressure that was building below his belt. Her legs moved against his as she leaned ever so slightly closer, and he thought she might actually kiss him. Brushing his nose against hers in invitation, he paused to allow her to make the choice.

He'd dreamed of this, imagined it, wanted her more than he'd wanted any woman, and when she finally caressed his lip between hers, it felt like an explosion of simultaneous joy and desire. He didn't worry that the other soldiers may return, or that they might be caught there on the floor, even though any rational person would have considered that possibility. It seemed somehow fitting that they were going to let go of their inhibitions right there on the floor where they'd playfully brawled so many times. He couldn't believe it was actually happening.

Then his exhilaration plummeted like an elevator cut from its cables as she somehow turned him on his side and slipped out of the embrace. "Dammit," she yelled, chiding herself, her fingers pulling her hair back from her face, "Sorry. I'm going to take a run."

She climbed through the ropes and ran out of the gym. The turn of events left him feeling whiplashed and deflated as he sat up and scratched the back of his head. The only thing he knew for certain was that he had to go after her, even if it did hurt his pride.

Grateful for the muddy turf, he could see which direction she'd taken. It was so damn cold, it felt like this place was always cold, and that made him miss the warmth he'd felt with her even more. He ran so fast, like his life depended on it, taking off through the woods, racing the setting sun.

She was a fast runner, but fortunately she hadn't been running at her fastest pace. He caught up, cutting in front of her and jogging backward for a few paces.

"Stop," he said, firmly. Then he reminded himself that he was chasing after her as an ordinary man, not as the squad sergeant she had to answer to, and rephrased, "Come on. Please."

She slowed, pacing at a walking speed, hands on her hips. "What?" she impatiently asked.

"Why'd you run off? If you wanted to stop you could have just said so."

"I think I did say so."

"You're completely overreacting," he argued.

"I think you're overreacting. I said I wanted to take a run, and you're behaving as if that's some kind of crime."

"Oh, come on. Are you going to pretend that something didn't almost happen back there?"

"What didn't almost happen?" she argued, glowering.

He shook his head, trying to put words to his frustration. "You know what? Forget it. If you want to ignore it, that's fine. I'm going back to the barracks."

He started to jog back, feeling the cold of her stare through to his bones. "Weller," she shouted after him.

His stride slowed, and he shouted without turning to face her, "What is it, Remy?"

"You're my friend," she said, rounding in front of him.

"And that's a bad thing?"

"I've had a really strange life, Kurt. The only other friend I've had is my brother. I think you're my first real friend. You're my best friend. I'm used to fighting everyone who isn't my family."

His posture softened as he stepped closer, "What happened to you after your parents were killed?"

She looked away, "I can't talk about that."

"You said I'm your best friend, but you don't trust me?"

"It's not that."

"Then what is it, Remy?" he yelled. "I'm here. Nothing you could say would stop me from caring about you."

"I'm not sure about that."

"Well I am," he argued. "Why can't you trust me off the field like you trust me on the field?" Waiting for her, and seeing that she was still hesitating, he seemed to give up. "When you're ready to actually trust me, if you ever are, let me know. I'll be here."

He started walking back and she shouted, "We were taken to a training camp and groomed to be soldiers and spies. There were lots of children there. They pitted us against each other, made us do cruel, unspeakable shit. They tried to beat, twist and torment every ounce of humanity from us."

Coming back slowly, he nodded, proving that he'd listen.

"I don't like talking about it," she explained.

"Thank you for trusting me," he replied taking her forearm in his hand.

"I don't think you get it. I'm seriously screwed up. I learned to kill while most kids were learning to ride a bike. Deep down you're a good guy. You could still have a good life if you make it out of here alive. I'm emotionally comatose." He tried to hug her and she backed away, adamantly shaking her head, "I can't."

"You can't let me hug you?"

"I can't…risk getting close to anyone. It could cloud my judgment and—"

"You can't say that," he interrupted. "You can't say one minute that you're 'emotionally comatose' and the next minute say that being close to me might cloud your judgement. Which is it, Remy, because you can't have it both ways."

She stared into his eyes, her face betraying her hidden sorrow, and said, "The difference between comatose and dead…is that comatose people sometimes wake up."

"You don't want to be brought out of that coma?"

She shook her head, "Honestly, I'm not sure what I'd do if I had to feel again."

"You're lying to yourself," he said, stepping very close but not touching her, "if you think you don't feel something."

He could see her gulp and then she said, "I—we should get back to camp. It's getting dark."

"You can count on me," he said, refusing to let it drop. "You can talk to me. I've been to some dark places. I won't judge you."

"I know you think you mean that."

"No." He touched her chin, gently lifting her gaze to capture her attention. "I do mean that. You just need to give me a chance."

They jogged back to camp and he went to the shower shortly after she'd left it. He desperately wanted the water to be hot, nearly scalding, but it was tepid at best, just as it was almost every day. The water was an annoying reminder of how frustrating his life was. And now he figured she'd probably pull away, and he was about to lose even the friendship they'd built. He felt he barely had a moment of privacy in that place, but it was about to feel very lonely anyway.

He wrapped a towel around his waist and left the shower for the bench where he'd left his clean clothes. When he walked out, he saw Remy leaning over the bench, and he asked, "What are you doing?"

She turned quickly, holding up a folded scrap of paper that she was going to leave on his clothing. At first his head swam with unhappiness as he suspected she was leaving a note before running off. "What is that?" he asked, stepping closer and taking it from her hand.

Opening it, he saw a simple message that said 'Kitchen', and he felt relieved. When he looked up from the note, he saw Remy studying his bare, dripping chest and torso, and he was never so pleased that he'd been spending so much time training. "Umm," she cleared her throat, "I…I owe you an apology. You were trying to be a friend, and—uhh…I'm not good at this stuff. Anyway, I'm making dinner. If you feel like it."

"Sure," he nodded his head. "Give me five and I'll be over."

Before she turned to walk away, she paused and said, "Just so we're clear, this can't be complicated," she pointed back and forth between them. "But I want to trust you…on and off the field. I will try. Okay?"

"Sure. Got it," he answered. "Uncomplicated."

"Good," she replied as if they'd actually accomplished something.

After she left, he repeated her words aloud to himself, "'Just so we're clear'?" He shook his head and added, "If anything I'm more confused."

Of course he wasn't going to fight it. He didn't want to lose her, and he was willing to walk a tightrope to stay by her side.

When he arrived in the kitchen, Remy was obviously trying to make the noodles that he'd shown her a few weeks earlier. She had somehow scattered flour all around the table and floor around her. She was focused on her task, but when he entered, she turned and said, "Sit down. I think I've got this."

A trail of flour was painted across her shirt and one side of her face. He sat on the counter near her and picked up a completely decimated bag that had once contained flour, studying the remains. "Looks good," he commented, pointing at her dough. "But for future reference, you don't need to use C-4 to open a bag of flour."

She darted a look at him, and then, seeing him grinning, she retorted, "You're such an ass, Weller."

"It's all part of my charm," he added, realizing as she tried to wipe the flour from her face with the back of her sleeve that he was, for the first time in his life, completely in love.