Author's Note: Here I am again! For those who were asking about possible fluffy and/or smutty fics - I haven't started writing anything yet, but I am considering some possibilities. Hopefully something short-ish. One epic-length fic at a time is enough! Anyway, thank you all for sticking with me, and please note that I have absolutely no idea how the US healthcare system works, so if anything seems weird, it's because I'm from the UK and couldn't be bothered to get in-depth with research. Sorry! :)
"Just fill out your insurance details here." The woman at the desk held out a clipboard and pen, barely looking at Jane.
Jane glanced from her to Weller and back again. "One, I can't use my arm to write. And two, do I even have insurance anymore?" she asked Kurt, as he took the clipboard for her.
She'd had coverage when she'd been an FBI asset—just as well, considering she was in the line of fire on a daily basis—but Pellington had effectively fired her when he'd shut down the investigations relating to her tattoos. With dismay, she realised she was probably going to be facing large hospital bills with no way to make any money, let alone afford insurance.
"Not yet. Let me handle this," Weller told her, nodding to the seating area behind them. "You go sit down."
The deluge of gratitude she felt for him at that moment made her eyes tear up. Whispering thanks, she walked across the room and chose a seat as far from anyone else as she could find.
How was she supposed to pick up and resume a life that had been so specific and specialised before? Everything that she was now, since her memory wipe, revolved around the FBI. She'd been overwhelmed by the way she'd been so easily cast aside by Director Pellington after Mayfair's disappearance and Weller's promotion, but she'd been sure that with Weller's support, she could transition to some other kind of life.
What was there for her now? She didn't have anywhere to live or an income. No real purpose, other than chasing after Shepherd, which had to wait until she could actually move without wanting to cry out in pain. No name, no birth certificate, no social security number, no concrete nationality—though she assumed she was American, from her lack of an accent.
She hadn't had to worry about those things on a practical level before. First she'd been adjusting to not knowing anything, and preoccupied by trying to work out why, and who had done this to her. Then the DNA match had come through, apparently confirming her as Taylor Shaw. When the FBI had officially registered her as an asset, they'd used Taylor's details for their employment records.
Now what could she do? What was the procedure in cases like this? Were there any procedures in place?
On the bright side, she couldn't be deported because she had no country of origin.
And, whether either of them liked it or not, she had Weller watching her back. Reluctantly. Because of his guilt complex.
She wasn't sure how long she sat and stared into space—trying to come up with a light at the end of her tunnel and failing time and again—before Weller sat down beside her.
"I've managed to delay the hospital administration team until we see where things are with your case," he said.
Somehow, Jane nodded.
"Hey. We will figure this out. I promise."
I understand if you don't want to do this. The words were stuck in her throat. The decent thing to do would be to give him an out, absolve him of responsibility for her and strike out on her own. If not for the fear of the CIA, she would have insisted on it.
Weller reached out, moving his outstretched hand into her line of sight. Before, he would have simply taken her hand, but she must have flinched away from him one too many times already.
How was it so difficult for her to put her good hand in his? The resistance in her muscles had nothing to do with pain. This problem was all in her mind.
Through sheer willpower, she rested her palm in his. Though she couldn't look at him, she sensed him relaxing as he curled his fingers around her hand.
"I don't know if I can do this," she said.
"Do what?"
"Life. I thought I had a… a…" Starting point. "…a foundation to build from. All the work I put into remembering who I am, trying to find my niche in this world… I thought it was working, for a while. But it's like I haven't made any progress at all since I first came out of the bag."
Before Weller could reply, someone called her name, and they were escorted to a curtained cubicle for her examination. Weller agreed to remain outside the curtain, though she Jane could tell he wanted to know how badly she was hurt.
The doctor introduced herself as Dr. Anderson. She examined Jane's pupil responses first, concerned about a concussion because of the obvious blows she'd taken to the face. Then she began to inspect Jane's shoulder through her clothes. Jane gritted her teeth, but was unable to avoid crying out when the doctor started to manipulate her arm.
"We'll need to do a scan. I don't want to remove your shirt until we know what we're dealing with here, but let's continue taking stock of your injuries as much as we can just by pushing aside your shirt. Do you have any open wounds?"
Jane allowed the examination, and the doctor looked over her various bruises, scrapes, slight burns, swollen pinkie fingers and bloodied nail beds, without commenting on the tattoos or asking what had happened to cause it all. Having an FBI agent just outside obviously helped in that regard. Yet another reason she owed Weller.
"Okay," Dr. Anderson said finally, making a note. "Let's run some blood tests just to make sure your organs haven't suffered, too. I'll get someone to come and direct you to where you need to be next."
She pulled back the curtain to reveal Weller, who was staring out of the window a short distance away. Weller glanced over, but the doctor paused and turned back. "One more thing."
She pulled the curtain mostly shut again, but Jane could still see Weller out of the corner of her eye.
"I'm sorry to have to ask so bluntly, but do we need to run a rape kit, Ms. Doe?"
Weller went completely motionless in her peripheral vision. So much for doctor/patient confidentiality.
"No," Jane said, hoping that would be enough.
Dr. Anderson looked dubious, and Jane couldn't blame her. If any criminal organisation had been holding her for the past three months, the threat of sexual assault would have been a real concern. Jane couldn't exactly say, It's okay, Doc, it was the government who brutalised me. Don't worry, the CIA don't rape their interrogation subjects, though they do joke about it from time to time.
"Are you sure? Think about it carefully before you decide."
"Those people did pretty much everything else to me, but not that. There's no reason for a test."
"Okay," the doctor said, and capped her pen. "Then we're all done here. Someone will be with you real soon to get you scanned and take your blood. From there, we'll see if that arm needs surgery."
As she swept the curtain aside and headed off down the hallway, Weller came to join her inside the cubicle.
"Jane—"
"I know you heard. And no, they didn't." She met his eyes, willing him to see the truth in them.
He nodded, searching her gaze for a lie. Some of the hardness went out of his expression, and he relaxed a little. "Good."
While Jane was being scanned and having blood drawn, Kurt waited as close by as he could without violating her privacy. If Jane was now in the system at the hospital, the CIA would be able to find her digitally. Kurt wouldn't put it past Keaton to cut down some side hallways and take her from the imaging unit without him being the wiser.
Should have called in some local agents for backup.
On the other hand, he knew that more strangers hanging around could damage Jane's mental health even more than it already had been. He needed to get Keaton to back off as soon as possible, so Jane could deal with her trauma without the very real threat of it reoccurring.
Weller was trying not to dwell on the doctor's final question in the cubicle, about the rape kit. Jane didn't seem to be lying about it not being needed, but even so, she was a woman whose power and agency had been completely stripped away. She had to have been dreading the threat of her male captors adding yet another violation to the list, even if that threat had never been realised.
It was already far too tempting to hunt Keaton down and make sure he could never lay a finger on Jane again. If he ever found out the bastard had raped her, or stood by while one of his subordinates had, Kurt would—
"Hey."
Ripped out of his thoughts, Weller looked up to find Jane standing in front of him, wearing a hospital-issued shirt rather than her own. Her injured arm was held tightly against her abdomen in a medical sling.
"You okay?"
Jane nodded, though she looked as though she were about to crawl out of her skin. "They had to cut off my shirt to avoid any more damage to the arm. This one is a lot like the ones they gave me…back there."
That explained some of her distress, but not all of it. "How's the shoulder?"
"My rotator cuff is almost completely detached. They want to operate as soon as possible."
Weller winced in sympathy. "I know this isn't what you were hoping for, but…"
"Yeah. I know. They said I could permanently lose some of my arm function if I don't."
If there was one thing that would scare Jane into agreeing to surgery, it was the idea that she'd be permanently less able to fight if she didn't. Weller would feel the same in her shoes. "I'll be close by the whole time you're in surgery. Maybe by the time you get out, I'll have some good news about Keaton."
Jane tried a smile, but it fell flat. Still, it was more than he'd expected. Maybe she wasn't as badly affected by her ordeal as he'd feared.
"So when she gets out of the hospital, where will she be staying?" Sarah asked.
Weller switched the phone from one ear to the other, scanning the vicinity for anyone looking out of place. He was restless and exhausted at the same time, the constant vigilance taking its toll on him. "A hotel, I guess. Or maybe the local FBI office can allocate us a safehouse for a few days."
"Use my apartment."
Weller shook his head, though she couldn't see. "Thanks for the offer, but I don't want Sawyer seeing her like this. The bruises would scare him. And I don't think Jane feels like being around any unnecessary people right now."
"Sawyer can stay at his dad's for a while, and I have a friend who's going through a rough breakup and needs some support. I'm sure she'll be fine with me staying in her spare room while she cries and listens to breakup songs."
"Are you sure? I don't want to inconvenience you guys. There are other options available—"
"I'm sure. Jane helped save my life when Edgar and I were stuck in that elevator. This is the least I can do for her."
"She'll appreciate it. Thanks. I'll make sure I..."
Keaton.
Contrary to the covert approach Weller had expected, the CIA operative sauntered towards him in a suit and tie, his bruised jaw not hindering the amusement on his face.
"Kurt?"
"Have to call you back, Sarah," Kurt said, and ended the call, rising from his seat just as Keaton reached him. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"Relax. I just came to talk."
Kurt looked past him for the expected backup, but saw nothing. Not that that meant anything. "Yeah, and while we're talking, your people are abducting Jane off the operating table, right?"
Keaton rolled his eyes. "If I was gonna take her now, I wouldn't risk coming over here to tell you all about it. Relax. Sit back down."
Warily, Kurt resumed his seat. Keaton settled down next to him. "You must be feeling the strain by now, right? Trying to be her guard dog and knowing you're just one man against a whole agency? Yeah, I know Pellington isn't Jane's biggest fan, so when it comes down to it, he's gonna be able to overrule any protection you put in place for her."
"Did you just come to gloat? Because in the movies, that would make you the bad guy."
"Listen, Weller. We both know she'd rather die than break under torture. She's had extensive SERE training, or something a lot like it. It would be a total waste of our time to carry on at this point."
Survival, Evasion, Resistance and Escape training. That would make sense for someone taking part in black ops like Orion.
"Don't get me wrong, we want her back. If nothing else, we want to secure her so that any classified intel in her tattoos, or in her brain, stays that way." Keaton leaned back, adopting a casual pose that didn't fool Weller in the slightest.
"So what's your angle? If you want to throw Jane in a hole and throw away the key, why come here and get chatty with me?"
"Let's just say… I know something you don't know. Someone will be making contact with you—probably in a few weeks, since Jane isn't exactly in top shape right now—and I'm guessing a lot of the answers we were trying to get from her might come to light as a result of what they're proposing."
Weller frowned, trying to mentally pull apart that statement. "Someone? Are we talking another agency, here?" How many goddamn agencies do I have to protect her from?
"I'd tell you which, but technically this division doesn't exist, so there's nothing to tell." As though he sensed Weller was near the end of his patience, Keaton added, "I wouldn't lose any sleep over it. They're gonna need Jane's cooperation, and yours, if this is gonna work. But I figured I'd let you know, so you can actually get some sleep at night."
Keaton rubbed the space between his eyebrows, looking less than fresh himself. "I gotta tell you, I'm just glad to be washing my hands of all this for now. I'm well and truly in the doghouse at the moment. You don't even wanna know how many of my daughter's basketball games I've had to miss."
"I'm sure it must have been torture for you," Weller said, his tone acerbic.
"See you around, Weller."
The first thing Kurt did once Keaton was out of sight was accost the first nurse he saw, and demand to know if Jane was still in surgery, where she was meant to be—and then insist that he checked in person and reported back. Once the bewildered man returned to confirm that yes, Jane was being worked on as they spoke, Kurt allowed himself to relax. For now.
Then he consulted the clock, decided he didn't care what time it was in New York, and dialled Pellington.