Oh man. I really disappeared for a while there, didn't I? I'm sorry about that. Though in my defence, I've been very distracted by the new addition to my household, an absolutely adorable Wolfhound puppy! She is precious and I love her to bits. Also I totally named her 'Remi Biggs' hahaha ('Biggs' rather than Briggs bc she's gonna get huge and also bc screw you Shepherd lol)
But anyway, here's the next chapter at long last. I know I normally reply to reviews before an update, but given that it's been so long... just know that I really did appreciate all your comments on last chapter (and of course, your hatred of Bradley haha) and I will do my best to give you actual timely responses for any comments on this one!
And finally, a huge shoutout to my friend Camila (Chibinoyume)— not only would this chapter have taken way longer without all of her gentle prodding, but also it was her birthday today! (Bc I'm super disorganised, I got this posted with literally like 2 minutes to spare before midnight lol.) So if any of you have a tumblr, please go send her some love! :D Happy happy happy birthday, mate x
Okay, guys. Here it is at last. Hope you enjoy it.
#########
She was really starting to hate Friday afternoons.
At least this time she'd actually been prepared; thanks to their little 'team meeting' earlier in the week, she'd known that this particular exercise was coming, not that that made it any more welcome.
For once, Weller was even less excited about the prospect than she was, though he'd been careful not to reveal any indication of that around any of the other trainees, playing his usual cheerful self well enough to fool just about anyone but her. When she'd come back to the room that first night, though— her thoughts still a little caught on the bizarre reception the table full of female recruits had given her at dinner— he hadn't even tried to hide his fear, his anxiety radiating from him like heat. The moment she'd seen him walk through the door behind Reade, she'd actually felt the cold weight of dread start to settle in her stomach, her body tense as he'd sat her down to warn her of what was to come.
If it had just been about her, she would have laughed in his face; she'd been beating polygraphs since her early teens, long since able to manipulate it to show whatever she desired.
But it wasn't just about her. Nothing in her life was, not anymore.
Like with everything else, Weller would be going through it with her— and unlike her, he was too damn honest for his own good.
And then there was also the problem of the two 'impostors' in their midst, though she'd figured Mayfair had already ensured that they were well prepared to handle just about any challenge this training could throw at them— and if not, then that was on them. After all, they were here to be her babysitters, not the other way around. Their continued presence here wasn't her responsibility.
And yet... well, Weller was safer with them here, that was all.
So just this once, she'd help them stay.
By the sound of it, though, the questions today were just going to be a re-hash of the ones that all potential trainees answered during their polygraph in the application process. Which made it even less clear what the actual point of this little farce was, but whatever. She'd do it, and then it would be done with, and they could go back to actually learning useful information rather than wasting their time playing pointless question games like a bunch of children.
Given the discussion at the lunch table today— she'd again been pulled to a table with several of the other female recruits, to her continuing confusion— it was clear that most of the other trainees had heard about their likely afternoon activity, which was why the sight of the table at the front of the room with the familiar machine set up on it elicited more resigned sighs than gasps of surprise.
Parting from Juliet and Valerie at the door, she and Zapata headed for their seats, and for a fraction of a second she let her eyes find Weller's as they passed, a silent reassurance.
They'd already been over this multiple times since Monday, and she'd done everything she could to teach him what she knew— not that there was a hell of a lot they could do without actually having the machine there to practice with, but he'd still seemed to find it a comfort all the same.
Now, they just had to hope that the interviewer didn't ask him anything that he couldn't answer.
Sinking into her seat, she glanced down at the polygraph operator, a baby-faced man in an ill-fitting gray suit, his dark hair short and his equally dark eyes narrowed behind his glasses as he fiddled with the settings on the machine. Before him on the table was a small laptop that he would use to see their results, and for a second she felt a flicker of relief, knowing the graph on the screen was too small to be read by anyone other than the polygrapher himself.
Only a moment later, though, the projector screen on the front wall came to life, half of it showing the digitized graph that would be plotting their responses, and half showing a video feed of the chair that they would all soon be taking a turn sitting in.
Great.
For another minute or two, trainees continued to filter in and take their seats, soon followed by Farrow himself. The polygraph tech jumped slightly as Farrow thumped him on the shoulder in greeting, the two of them exchanging a few quiet words before Farrow turned to address the room.
"Good afternoon, trainees! As you may have heard, we have some more fun lined up for you this week. With me here is Agent Emir Mazhari, our best polygrapher, who kindly gives up his time to teach you all how a pro does it. So make sure you watch closely! And given that every one of you will take a turn being strapped in, it means that you will have twenty-three opportunities to observe his technique and one opportunity to experience it for yourself. I highly recommend taking notes."
It was pretty much exactly what Remi had expected of the afternoon, but still, she felt the urge to sigh over the long hours of boredom ahead of her, her attention already waning.
Nodding a little, Farrow went on, "And yes, I am aware that you all underwent a polygraph during your application process, and clearly you must have passed, because otherwise you would not be sitting here before me now. However, that doesn't mean there isn't more we can all learn about one another."
Carefully keeping her distaste from showing on her face— this was still better than the bonding exercises, but only barely— she let her eyes shift to Weller for a moment, seeing the barely-perceptible tension in his shoulders, the stiffness of his spine. Last week, he'd actually enjoyed the group's ridiculous little 'get to know you' session; now, she could practically feel his discomfort and worry from where she sat, and she couldn't do a damn thing to ease it.
Another reason to want this fucking afternoon over with.
"This will be a three hour session," Farrow explained, as if he'd heard her thoughts and simply wanted to annoy her further with the reminder. "You are welcome to take a quick bathroom break at any point excepting when you are expected to be up front. We will be going alphabetically, so that should give you all an idea of when you'll be taking your turn up here. Now, any last questions before we get started?"
"A least you get it out of the way quickly," Zapata muttered beside her, clearly already as bored with this whole situation as she was.
"Regretting something, Zamora?" she shot back, her words a mocking whisper. But instead of the irritation she'd expected— or maybe even intended— she saw Zapata's lips twitch slightly, her head dipping slightly in amused acknowledgement.
Going alphabetically, Zapata would be the very last to be tested, while Remi herself would be up third, directly after Jason Bradley— which for once was fairly ideal, given that he was almost guaranteed to be far more memorable than her.
And who knew, maybe he would even let something slip that would get him kicked out altogether.
One could only dream.
At least Weller wouldn't be up until almost the very end, so he would have plenty of time to observe the others and get familiar with the questions before it was his turn.
She only hoped it would be an advantage.
At the front, Farrow glanced back at the polygrapher, who gave a small nod. "Alright, Emir is ready, so come on down, Trainee Barton."
Standing from her spot in the front row, Barton smoothly shifted past a couple of seated trainees and rounded the desk, not seeming at all concerned about having to go first. At six feet tall, she towered over most of the other female trainees, her straw-blond hair cut short and boyish, and her build lean and athletic. From what Remi had observed, she was steady and capable, and— like herself— didn't generally feel the need to talk, often letting her roommate speak for her.
When Barton took the seat facing the polygrapher, he had her hooked up in moments, his hands quick and confident as he fastened the various leads. Then, he launched into the control questions, confirming her name, her birthplace, her gender— all the true statements that would give her baseline reading— and then at Farrow's nod he started working through his list of interview questions, his watchful eyes hardly leaving the screen.
At his efficient pace, he was through most of the questions in only a few minutes, every single one of them identical to those from the application process.
Except for the very last.
Eyes still fixed on Barton's reading, the polygrapher asked, "Are you keeping any secrets that you would not wish your fellow trainees to know about?"
Instantly, Remi's eyes narrowed, indignation flaring.
Oh, those pot-stirring motherfuckers.
For a second, Barton just blinked owlishly at him, and then answered calmly, "No."
Surprisingly, the reading up on the projector screen showed that she was telling the truth; so either she was skilled enough to deceive the polygraph, or she just really didn't give a shit about any of them finding out about her dirty laundry. Remi had to respect that.
While he disconnected her, Farrow called for Bradley, who came down to switch places with her. Unlike Barton's unruffled appearance, however, he seemed faintly nervous, his usual cocky smile just a little too forced.
Good.
Less than five minutes later, though, he'd been through the same questions without incident, answering 'Yes' to the question about secrets. Well, at least he'd had the balls to admit it, even if she had absolutely no desire to ever find out what perverse skeletons were hidden in his closet. Having dirt on someone was one thing, but having to spend the rest of her life knowing things she didn't want to know was definitely another.
And then, with Bradley done, it was her turn.
Rising from her chair, she walked calmly down to the front, ignoring the sensation of two dozen pairs of eyes on her. Taking a seat, she stared straight ahead as the polygrapher swiftly connected her, and then silently retook his place before her, his fingers pushing his glasses back up his nose as he turned his focus back to the screen.
Then, his tone steady and professional, he began.
"Is your name Remi Briggs?"
"Yes," she answered, her first partial truth; after everything that she had been through, everything she had done, she was definitely more Remi than Alice— but it was still the name her parents had given her, and she would never let it go entirely.
"Were you born in New Mexico?"
Not even close. "Yes."
"Are you male?"
At least this one was straightforward. "No."
Baseline questions over, she saw the polygrapher straighten just a fraction, his gaze seeming a little sharper.
"Have you ever been convicted of a felony?"
"No," she said evenly. After all, it was true; to get convicted, you actually had to get caught first.
"Have you ever used recreational drugs?"
"No." Another truth. Shepherd had detested drugs, both prescription and recreational alike, and had strictly forbidden them from touching anything that could impair their attention or performance. After escaping the compound, Remi had considered trying something— or even a few things— purely as a further 'fuck you' to Shepherd and her rules, but it was simply too much of a risk. She may have made it out of Shepherd's grasp, but that didn't mean she was anywhere close to being safe; one little mistake, one moment of inattention, and she could be caught and dragged back in, her new chains so tight that she would never have any hope of getting free ever again.
Joining the Navy had been her insurance against that, and they didn't care for drug use in their officers any more than Shepherd had— not that had stopped most of her peers, of course— so she'd stayed away from even the tamest of substances, never willing to take the chance.
Across from her, the polygrapher had already moved on. "Do you have any current debts?"
Not of the financial kind. "No."
"Do you have any relationships which may compromise your integrity as an agent?"
"No." And there it was; possibly the greatest lie she'd ever told. Even with her ties to Shepherd and Roman aside, she knew she would turn her back on the FBI in less than a second if it would protect Weller from harm.
Hell, if it would somehow save him, she'd burn the entire establishment to the ground without a second thought, and without an ounce of guilt.
So yeah, compromised didn't even begin to cover it.
From his expression, though, the polygrapher clearly saw nothing in her results to give him concern, the next question already on his tongue.
"Have you ever cheated on a test in high school or beyond?"
"No." An easy truth. She'd helped Roman cheat a few times back at the compound, but she'd never needed to do it herself, either at the compound or in the Navy.
Shepherd had trained her too well for that.
"Were you completely truthful on your application to the FBI?"
"Yes." Never mind that no such application existed; or at least, not one that she'd had anything to do with. No doubt Mayfair's tech team had fabricated something for the records, but she'd never seen it, and would likely never need to.
"Do you have any affiliations to terrorist groups?"
"No," she answered calmly, well aware of Weller's anxious gaze on her, even as her own never wavered from the polygrapher. When Reade and Zapata had taken them through the likely questions they'd be asked the other night, she'd seen Weller stiffen at that one, his glance flicking to hers. He'd covered for it quickly by asking the others if they would consider Orion to be a terrorist group— in reality, yes, but in this specific context, no— but the worry had still been there behind his eyes.
And though she knew he had full faith in her ability to handle the polygraph— far more than he had in himself— she also knew that he wouldn't be able to stop worrying until it was over.
Especially considering the two questions she was still yet to face.
"Have you ever knowingly or willfully engaged in acts or activities designed to overthrow the U.S. government by force?"
Only for about a third of her life. "No."
She didn't need to look up at the projected trace to know it wouldn't have wavered from the baseline she'd set for it, but she was glad that Weller could see it, could take reassurance from it as they both waited for the polygrapher to move on to the final question, the very deliberate and calculating inclusion.
"Are you keeping any secrets that you would not wish your fellow trainees to know about?"
"Yes," she said simply, not bothering to lie. It was the answer that most— if not all— of them would expect from her anyway; in almost two weeks here, she'd spoken barely more than a handful of words to any of them, and she planned to keep it that way.
With that, the polygrapher hit a couple of keys on the laptop and stood to disconnect her, and only a moment later she was free, rising from the chair as Farrow called Samir Chopra to take her place.
Weller was careful not to look at her as she passed, his eyes still fixed on the screens at the front, but she could see that the crease between his eyebrows had smoothed away, some of the tension seeming to have eased from his shoulders now that the first test was over with.
And yet they both knew the truth; had known it from the very start.
The real test would be his.
#########
He was starting to feel sorry for Mazhari.
Between the actual interviews themselves, and the brief time required for the changeover from one trainee to the next, the man had been in front of them for over two full hours now, steadily repeating the same questions over and over, with only the initial baseline questions to give him a little variety.
To his credit, though, he just powered through without ever faltering, almost as much a machine as the one on the table in front of him.
Still, Weller didn't really get the point.
Sure, it was helpful to observe someone with a high level of experience utilizing the polygraph, but at the same time, that was what they had polygraphers for; even when he was an experienced agent, he wouldn't be doing these himself, and though he would probably be expected to be able to interpret a set of results, the likelihood of him ever actually having to do that was definitely low.
The content itself made no sense, either— if they'd been asking a different set of questions, then maybe he could have understood, but these were all apparently identical to the application questions, which meant that literally everyone else in here had already answered them successfully under polygraph before. Did the trainers think they were suddenly going to catch someone in a lie?
Well, they hadn't so far; though some of the recruits had gone through the questioning looking less comfortable than others, none had set off any particular alarm bells with their answers. The only variation in the main set of questions was that a few of them answered yes to having used recreational drugs in the past, but no doubt they'd already had that thoroughly looked into during their application; it was more than likely that they'd just tried weed once in a legal state, which was why they'd been cleared for it in the first place.
Really, the last question had been the only one that had actually held anyone's interest.
And so maybe that had been the whole point of this lesson; to remind them all that even amongst their colleagues, their teammates, there were many things they didn't know about one another, things that may simply be personal, or may be dangerous or able to potentially compromise their fellow agent.
For all that the FBI had been telling them to lean on one another— to support one another, to treat each other like family— this seemed to be a reminder that blind trust could be deadly.
That anyone, if pressured in just the right way, could betray their country.
No one even tried to lie, to pretend that they didn't have secrets they wanted to keep from the rest of the cohort. Though, like Barton, a small number truthfully answered no; he didn't think Barton was without secrets, but he believed that she genuinely did not care what any of them knew or thought about her. Same with John Moretti. As for Sandy Fitzgibbons, well, maybe the former psychology professor really was just that squeaky clean.
Most, though, followed Remi's lead.
After all, a secret didn't have to be dangerous; it could just be embarrassing, or deeply personal.
No doubt their instructors were trying to encourage them to discover how to spot the difference.
To his relief, Reade got through his own questioning without issue; really, the only lie for him was the first, confirming his name as Jackson Reeves, and as a baseline question the lie actually worked in his favor rather than against it.
Like most of the others, he too admitted to having a secret, and Weller couldn't help but wonder if his false identity wasn't the only thing his roommate was concealing.
Man, maybe this exercise was getting to his head after all.
Not long after Reade had returned to his seat, Oliver Tham was the one being disconnected from the machine, and it was his turn at last.
Hopefully all of Remi's coaching would be enough.
The sensation of being strapped in was more nerve-racking than he'd anticipated; maybe that was also the point of the lesson, to show them what it would feel like to be on the other side, the one that everyone they ever questioned would be on, the one without the law and the power of the FBI behind it.
Sitting there in front of everyone, he found that he suddenly didn't know where to look; part of him wanted to look at the screen and see his results, to know everything was okay, that he hadn't yet fucked up. But mostly he just wanted to look at Remi, to hold her gaze and let her strength settle him.
But he couldn't.
So instead he looked at Mazhari, taking in his thick eyelashes and smooth cheeks, wondering if the guy's calm, non-threatening demeanor had been part of what made him suited to the job, or if he had developed that persona because of his role.
Either way, Weller was glad of it.
In the end, the questions were easy, for the most part; he had no debts, had never used any drugs— though there'd been times, mostly back in his teens, when he'd strongly considered it, desperately wishing for the escape they would give him— he had never been in trouble with the law, had never cheated at school, and he'd most definitely never tried to overthrow the government.
Really, of them all, there were only two questions that he'd had to prepare for.
"Do you have any affiliations to terrorist groups?"
Well, his possible future brother-in-law and foster-mother-in-law were technically terrorists, but he'd likely never even meet the latter, and the former would probably shoot him in the face if he ever saw him again, so it felt pretty safe to say they were unaffiliated.
"Do you have any relationships which may compromise your integrity as an agent?"
If this had been his first time hearing the question, he might have been caught out by it, might have answered reflexively without thinking it through. But he'd had enough time over the past week to carefully consider it, and he'd come to the decision that his relationship with Remi could never compromise his integrity, because she would never allow it.
Of course, if someone had a gun to her head and told him to give up FBI secrets in exchange for her life, he would do it in a heartbeat— but that wasn't being compromised.
That was love.
When Mazhari deftly unhooked him from the machine— naturally, he'd said yes to the question about secrets, and would have even if he and Remi had never met— he suppressed a sigh of relief, then rose from the chair and started heading back up the walkway to his desk, giving Zapata a small, encouraging smile as they crossed paths, and getting an approving one in return.
Unable to help himself, he glanced up at Remi as he neared his seat; if he'd passed the test without giving any indications for suspicion, she would know.
Her gaze had been fixed straight ahead, seeming to be watching Zapata getting connected to the machine, but for the briefest second her eyes flicked to his, her head tilting in a subtle nod. Relieved, he dropped silently into his seat, seeing Reade lift his hand from the desk and make a fist, holding it out a little towards him. Knocking it lightly with his own, he let his lips curve just a fraction before immediately sobering again as they both turned their focus to the front, watching intently as Mazhari started all over again with Zapata.
As it turned out, they needn't have worried. She was good; calm and collected, and above all, believable.
Though where the three of them had been good, Remi had been amazing.
He knew her well enough to know that barely a quarter of what she'd said throughout her entire interview had been the truth, and yet she hadn't even batted an eyelid once, completely fooling everyone watching as well as the machine.
Which made it even more unbelievable that he'd ever been able to pick up on literally any indication whatsoever that she wasn't being honest with him, but he had. She hadn't outright lied to him since the day they'd arrived at the safehouse— there had definitely been times when she hadn't wanted to tell him something, or had skirted around the truth, but she'd never lied— but before that, on the plane and out in the desert... well, honesty hadn't always been her priority.
And yet somehow he'd known it, had almost always been able to tell when she wasn't giving him the truth.
Maybe he'd already known her too well to be fooled. Or maybe— consciously or not— she'd already cared about him too much to be able to deceive him as easily as she did everyone else.
Today, though, it wasn't one of her lies that lingered in his mind, but a truth; even as they were all dismissed from class and headed back to the dorms and then to dinner, the question hovered in the back of his mind, waiting for the right moment, waiting for them to finally be alone.
She seemed to sense it, too, her questioning gaze finding his in the bathroom mirror that night as they both brushed their teeth; but he just shook his head, knowing this wasn't the moment they needed. Once he'd finished and dropped his toothbrush back in the holder beside hers, he pressed a gentle kiss to her temple, his voice a soft murmur in her ear.
"Tomorrow."
Then, he forced himself to walk away, his eyes meeting hers for one last moment before he passed through the door to his bedroom— the door that she strode through less than twelve hours later, barely a minute after Reade's exit from the room, the two of them once more left alone while the others took their phones and headed into town to see Patterson.
Of course, the first couple of hours didn't provide much opportunity for talking— not that he was complaining, because Jesus Christ the things she could to to him were beyond comprehension— but later, when they were exhausted enough to simply lie wrapped up in each other, he got up the courage to speak.
"So... am I the secret?"
"Hmm?" she murmured, clearly having been on the edge of sleep, the sound warm and lazy and satisfied.
"From the polygraph questions," he clarified, finally getting to voice the question that had been on his mind since yesterday afternoon. "Am I the secret you wouldn't want the other trainees to find out about?"
Lifting her head from his chest, she shot him a look. "Weller. There is literally no part of my life that I want the others to know about."
He felt himself grin at that, immediately able to recognize it as the truth rather than a deflection. "Fair point."
Shaking her head slightly, she settled against him once more, and he let his fingers resume trailing gently down her spine, enjoying the goosebumps they left in their wake. Only a minute later, though, she spoke again, her voice almost hesitant.
"Did it… worry you?"
Tilting his head a little, he tried to gauge her meaning. "What? Being the secret?"
"No. Seeing me lie like that."
"Oh. No," he answered simply, then felt the grin return to his face. "It was definitely impressive— and unexpectedly sexy— but no, it didn't worry me."
"Sexy?" she teased, and he chuckled.
"Very," he replied, then turned his head to brush his lips lightly against her forehead, adding softly, "Really, it's alright, Remi. I know you would only lie to me if you absolutely had to, and even then it would only be to protect me. I trust you to make that call."
He felt the breath she drew in as she absorbed that, felt the gentle touch of her fingers to the tiny dots of his tattoo as she slowly let the breath out again. She didn't try to assure him he was right; she didn't need to.
He knew.
Smiling a little, he added, "Plus, sometimes I can kinda tell when you're lying."
"Is that right?" she challenged playfully, her voice low and warm, like he'd just said something adorably endearing.
"Mmhmm," he confirmed. "Watch, I'll prove it."
Splaying his palm out on her back, he wrapped his other hand gently around her wrist where it rested on his chest, his fingertips directly over her pulse.
"There. Now I've got breathing rate and heart rate."
"What about electrolytes?" she asked, cocking an eyebrow as she glanced up at him.
Biting back a grin, he answered evenly, "Excluded from measurement on the grounds that after our recent activities, your sweat is contaminated by mine anyway."
She gave a delicate snort. "And yet you don't think that my pulse and respiratory rate is affected by the fact that we're currently naked in bed together?"
Unable to keep the smile from his face, he drew her hand up, pressing a lingering kiss to her palm. "Is it?"
She didn't blink. "No."
"See? That was definitely a lie," he gloated, and she simply rolled her eyes at him and shifted to rest her cheek back on his chest, but not before he saw the tiny smile on her lips.
For a few moments they simply lay there like that, just enjoying holding one another, and then he drew in a careful breath.
"Can I ask you something else?"
He felt her muscles tense just slightly, reacting to the subtle shift in his tone, but her voice was calm. "Ask."
He paused, unsure how to phrase the question, unsure if he really wanted to know the answer. "Have you ever regretted this?"
"What?" she asked, and he could feel her frowning against his chest, clearly not understanding his meaning.
"Us," he said softly, then let out a breath. "Have you ever regretted... choosing to be with me?"
"No," she said immediately, the word quiet but firm, and he believed it. Then she spoke again, her voice as soft as his had been, but with a heaviness to the words he hadn't expected. "But I regret what being with me has cost you."
He felt his eyebrows draw together. "What do you mean?"
"I don't know," she murmured, then hesitated slightly before seeming to force herself to go on. "I guess... the chance to have something normal, with someone... normal."
For a second he didn't breathe, the air trapped somewhere in his chest as her words echoed around in his head. He'd known that she had insecurities about them— hell, he had plenty of his own— but he'd never realized that she'd felt like this.
"Fuck normal," he said bluntly, barely even hearing the surprised huff she let out, too busy craning his neck to try to meet her eyes, to make her understand. "Remi, do you love me?"
Her eyes found his, and he could see the truth in them, could hear it in her single soft word. "Yes."
"Then that's all that matters. You love me and I love you and everyone else can go fuck themselves."
Pushing herself up a little on her elbow, she leaned in and pressed her lips to his, a depth of emotion to the kiss that made his throat feel a little tight. Then, she drew back a little, shooting him an almost amused look.
"Such coarse language, Weller. I must be rubbing off on you."
As she spoke the words, she deliberately shifted her hips just a little, making him clench his jaw at the subtle friction of her body against his, a sudden heat sparking under his skin.
"Don't try to distract me," he said gruffly, even as he knew just how little convincing it would take to get him to give in to that particular kind of distraction. "I'm not done with my questions."
Her response was to let out an exaggerated sigh, but he could tell from the way she obediently settled back against him that she was starting to actually almost enjoy humoring him with this.
As if to prove him right, after a couple moments had passed and he hadn't said anything, she prompted, "Well? I'm waiting."
Drawing in a slow breath, he gently curled a lock of her hair around his finger, his eyes staring blankly into the distance as he spoke.
"When did you know you were in love with me?"
"Polygraphs only include yes/no questions, Weller," she reminded him, but the words were soft, a tenderness to them that he couldn't mistake.
He shrugged a shoulder a little. "Well, human lie detectors are more sophisticated."
"You, sophisticated?" she tossed back, her teasing grin clear in her voice.
"Objection," he said, his tone mock-serious. "Answer the question before I hold you in contempt of the court."
"Oh, this is a trial now?"
Tugging lightly on the lock of hair he held, he said simply, "Remi."
"Alright, alright," she muttered, then paused for a moment before giving her answer. "Remember when I told you? A few hours before that."
He was surprised by the flash of disappointment he felt, his grip on her wrist loosening just a fraction. "Oh."
"Weller," she said quietly, her fingers uncurling to press gently against his chest, right over his heart. "You're not going to get anywhere in any interrogation if you're not asking the right questions."
Disappointment was immediately replaced by confusion, his head tilting a little to look down at her. "What do you mean?"
For a long moment, she said nothing— and when she spoke, her words were completely unexpected.
"At the compound, Shepherd raised both Roman and I to be elite fighters, the perfect soldiers for her war. But even though the foundation of the training was the same for both of us, our roles weren't. I was trained to be a leader. Roman was trained to be my shield."
Letting out a slightly unsteady breath, she went on. "I think that's why she chose us, back at the orphanage. I think she always intended just to take a girl— the ideal poetic protégé, a girl who would one day dismantle a system built by and for men— but then when she saw how we were together, she realized she could use it. She weaponized Roman's loyalty to me, ensuring my protection, just as she exploited my need to protect him, ensuring my loyalty to her."
Christ. When she'd first told him about Shepherd taking them from the orphanage, he'd been too stunned— and concussed— to examine it too deeply, to consider that her choice might have been a calculated one, but now he had no doubt that Remi was right; that Shepherd had looked at two traumatized, orphaned children, and rather than seeing the unspeakable horrors they'd endured, had seen only an opportunity.
If he ever met the woman, he'd have some things to say about that.
"I know Roman loves me," Remi murmured eventually, breaking the brief silence that had fallen between them, then immediately corrected herself. "Loved me. But we both always knew that if anything happened to me on a mission— if he failed to protect me— his life would almost certainly be forfeit."
Clearing her throat, she pushed on, seeming determined to get it out. "That's why I had to be the best. I had to be faultless, unbeatable, because if I wasn't, Roman would pay too. And then I left him there alone."
He could hear heaviness in her voice, the old grief rising to the surface, and god, he ached for her, for everything that she had been through— and for Roman, too. He didn't know what had made her decide to speak of this now, but he was glad of it, glad to know any bit of the past that had made her who she was.
And then she spoke again, and suddenly, he understood.
"If it had come to it, Roman would never have had a choice in sacrificing himself for me," she said grimly, and then everything in her seemed to soften, her voice barely more than a whisper. "You did. Back at the cliff, you chose my life over yours without a second of hesitation. Then you told me that you'd do it again."
He remembered the words, remembered how much he'd meant them. I made the call, Briggs, and I'd make the same one again.
Hell, he'd make it a thousand times over if he could, and never feel a single trace of regret.
Not if it saved her.
"I hated you right then," she said abruptly, the words so matter-of-fact that he almost chuckled. "Hated you for being so willing to die for me when suddenly all I cared about was keeping you alive."
Letting out a soft sigh that ghosted warmly over his skin, she tilted her head back, deliberately meeting his gaze.
"That's when I loved you, Kurt. I just wasn't ready to see it yet."
This time there was no fighting the stupid smile that spread across his face, curving his lips right up until the moment they met hers, the kiss slow and gentle and lingering.
When they eventually parted, she stroked her fingertips lightly over the scars on his chest, her voice quiet.
"When was it for you?"
He didn't have to think about his answer; he already knew.
"When I saw the chopper ripped to shreds, and thought that the same had happened to you," he murmured, the memory of it still raw enough to hurt. Curling his fingers around hers, he added, "And then I saw you, and you saw me, and you looked… you looked so relieved. Not just to see another survivor. But to see me."
For several long seconds, she was silent, and he couldn't help but wonder if she was remembering that moment too, or even trying to imagine what it had been like from his side now that she knew how he'd felt.
"After what happened with Roman, I refused to care about anyone," she said simply, her grip tightening around his. "So I didn't. And then the chopper crashed and I couldn't understand why my first thought was of you."
She'd never told him that. Throat tight, he turned his face a little to press his lips to her hair, his heart feeling like there wasn't enough space for it in his chest.
"And then I saw you," she murmured, "And... well, spending five months picturing you naked was one thing, but actually giving a shit about you? That was never the plan."
She'd already admitted weeks ago— to his complete and utter delight— just how early her attraction to him had started, but now he saw it as the perfect opening; he knew just how difficult these kind of conversations were for her, so he took the opportunity to lighten the load for a little while.
"I'm sorry, what was that?" he asked, his tone deliberately mischievous. "Picturing what?"
"Picturing you," she said, her voice turning husky as she instantly followed his lead. "Picturing you on top of me—"
Obediently, he rolled them, grinning at the tiny, breathless laugh that escaped her.
"What else?" he asked, holding himself still, feeling her shift impatiently beneath him.
"Picturing you inside me," she replied firmly, the words almost an order; then gasped a little as he promptly complied, her fingernails pressing into his back.
Lifting her head a little, she whispered against his lips, "Picturing you making me come so hard I forget my own name."
"Then let's turn imagination into reality," he answered, and kissed her.
#########
Sorry to anyone who was hoping for more ~weekend smut~ haha, but I hope that having them snuggling in bed for like half a chapter was a reasonable consolation prize lol... though I definitely think that their conversation there at the end was one of the things that kept me from getting this chapter up a lot earlier, because I really struggled to get it to a point where I was happy with it, and ngl in the end I kind of just... gave up lol. But then again, I suppose that these two badasses being mushy and ridiculous with each other is kind of what this fic is all about anyway, so...
Btw, fun fact: apparently the polygraph-in-front-of-the-class thing is a legit thing they do at Quantico! Also, pretty much all of the questions I used are ones that they actually do use in the official application process! (thanks, Google! lol)
Second fun fact: the polygrapher character is a tribute to Ennis Esmer's bit role as an unnamed polygrapher in the show Covert Affairs, and his name is a combination of two of Ennis' other characters' names (from Private Eyes and Schitt's Creek.) This may tip you off to the fact that I freakin' love Ennis Esmer and will watch him in pretty much anything haha.
Anyway, thanks for reading, and I hope to see you guys much sooner for the next chapter!
(Ps- you would think, given how long this chapter took, that it should be the most 'polished' of the lot... but ngl I kind of pumped this out in a hurry after not working on it for weeks, so you'll have to forgive any typos or bits that don't quite read right lol)