Author's Note: Time for Kurt to reveal his secret! And for Jane to start getting angrier. :D

Kurt was going crazy.

Jane had been doing nothing but lying in bed since they'd gotten to Sarah's, three days ago. Her arm was on the mend and her bruises looked better every day, but she was listless, and her characteristic determined spark was non-existent. Weller been ensuring she ate regular meals and helping her to change her dressings, but other than that, he'd honoured her requests to be left alone.

He glanced over at the closed door to Sarah's bedroom, wondering if Jane had finally managed to get some sleep that was uninterrupted by nightmares. The dreaming didn't seem to be getting any better; she'd woken him at least once every night crying out in her sleep. A couple of times, it had been his own name he'd heard.

After the first one, he'd learned his lesson; instead of waking her by touch, he'd stand in the doorway and call her name until she surfaced from sleep, disoriented and fearful. Each time, he'd offered to listen if she wanted to talk. Each time, she'd declined to take him up on it.

When they got back to New York, he'd get Borden to reach out to her. For now, he was just going to have to let her work through things on her own.

The worst part was having to ignore his own justified anger at the way she'd betrayed his trust, and Mayfair's. Kurt needed distance to work through those feelings, but he owed Jane his support. If not for him, she wouldn't have PTSD to begin with, so he was putting his resentment on the back burner for now.

Pellington was dismissive of Jane and her case at the best of times, but when Kurt had relayed Keaton's words, the Director of the NYO had gone up the chain to FBI Headquarters in DC, in an attempt to get to the bottom of the situation. So far, no agencies had come forward with an interest in Jane, but as Keaton had mentioned, Jane was nowhere near fighting shape, physically or mentally. They were likely biding their time.

Back in New York, Patterson, Zapata and Reade were dealing with the news of Mayfair's death in their own ways. Patterson was heartbroken, Reade had shut down and Zapata was hiding her pain behind anger. All of them had loved Mayfair like family; it hurt that he wasn't with them, but he hadn't wanted to delay the revelation while they'd all still hoped she was alive.

All he'd told them was that Mayfair had been shot and killed by Carter's murderer, Oscar, whom Jane had then killed in retaliation. The rest—Jane's role in planting fabricated evidence that led to Mayfair's arrest—could wait until they got back to the NYO.

Weller picked up the paperback he'd been trying to read and stared at the page, reading but not absorbing the words. After a minute, hearing a drawer open and close in Sarah's room, he put it down again and stood up.

It was time to put the fire back into Jane's eyes. No matter the cost to their relationship.

The painkillers were wearing off, but Jane didn't bother reaching for more. Now that there was an option to make it go away for a while, she had taken to waiting a little longer than recommended between doses, convinced that she didn't deserve to be pain-free for long.

Moping around wasn't her style, but she had strict orders from the hospital not to over-exert herself. She'd asked when it would be safe to begin an exercise routine to regain the muscle she'd lost during her captivity, but both the nurse and the doctor in the room with her had made it extremely clear that she was to avoid strenuous activity until she was undergoing rehab with a physiotherapist. Which wouldn't be until her surgical incision had completely healed. She wouldn't be lifting weights until her pinkie fingers—which had needed re-breaking and setting correctly—were free from the splints they currently wore.

As a small act of rebellion, Jane had taken to doing lower-body stretches and a few repetitions of low-stress leg exercises, but for the most part she was resolved to not screw this up. Her body, her training—they were all she had, and she couldn't take stupid risks now that she was free, any more than she could have in the black site.

So while she longed to go jogging or to complete a challenging number of sit-ups, she remained mostly inactive, and chafed at the restrictions set by her own body. When she wasn't attempting to exercise, the days and nights stretched before her, purposeless and empty of promise or optimism.

Sarah Weller had made herself scarce before they'd arrived in Portland, but she'd left Jane a gift—shirts, jeans and underwear in several different colours, all in her size. The shirts were even easy to put on with her wounded arm—some button-down, others stretchy or loose-fitting. She hadn't known Jane's shoe size, but had left a couple of pairs of sneakers and ankle boots in case they fit her, and as it turned out, they did. Jane had cried with gratitude as she'd put on the clothing, not only because of Sarah's thoughtful gesture, but because she was pretty sure Kurt had also been part of planning it.

Jane got off the bed and opened the drawer now, reminding herself that though her life was a total disaster, the Wellers cared enough to make sure she was fed, clothed and sheltered. Weller had picked up a cheap, pre-paid phone for her and given her Kalina's number, and they'd been texting back and forth, staying connected. At least she'd finally made one friend who wasn't connected to this whole mess.

After touching one of her new shirts for a moment, she closed the drawer again and returned to the bed. She stretched out on her back to resume her staring at the ceiling, knowing she was indulging her new, self-destructive tendencies and not giving a damn.

You don't deserve friends. You don't deserve kindness. Why didn't you just give up and die at the black site?

The longer Jane thought about her situation, the more convinced she became that living was a waste of time. She didn't even know who she was, and she had serious misgivings about who she used to be from the little she remembered. Why bother trying to get up again when life would just keep knocking her down?

Before she could go into a full-on spiral down into that depressive mire, a knock at the door startled her. Weller had taken to not disturbing her unless he wanted her to eat or change her dressings—neither of which would be due for a few hours yet—or when he was attempting to wake her from nightmares. "Come in," she called, not raising her voice too far, in the hope that he wouldn't hear her and retreat.

Weller opened the door, but stayed in the doorway. "We have to talk, Jane."

She didn't move or speak, unexpectedly paralysed by the fear that he was about to throw her out in the street. Conversations that began with 'we have to talk' rarely ended well.

"There's something…I chose not to tell you. About your case. But you've come clean with me. It's only fair that I do the same."

Jane sat up so fast that her shoulder twinged in protest. "What things?"

Instead of replying, he turned and left, not bothering to shut the door behind him. He knew she'd be following him right on through it.

On one level, it rankled that he was deliberately provoking her, hoping for a reaction other than just her turning over in bed. Even so, she was too curious and outraged to let this go. She was in the living room with him in less than ten seconds.

"What didn't you tell me?" she demanded.

Far from showing the smugness she would have expected he'd feel at getting the reaction he'd wanted, Weller looked serious. Apprehensive. Jane fought off a wave of dizziness at her burst of exertion and sat on the other end of the couch.

"First off, you should know that I…" He paused, then started again. "No, that's wrong. When I decided not to tell you this, Mayfair accused me of picking and choosing evidence to suit my preferred narrative. She was right. I didn't like what it told me, so I chose to disregard it."

"Disregard what? You're not making any sense."

He didn't look at her as he laid it out. "Remember you lost a tooth when that guy broke into your safehouse? I didn't know she was doing it until she told me the result, but Patterson took it as evidence and ran an isotopic profile. There are certain elements in your tooth that point to the region of your birth and early childhood."

All the oxygen seemed to leave the room. "Where?"

"You used to live somewhere in sub-Saharan Africa."

"Africa," she whispered, too absorbed by the information to react to the delay in learning it. "Is that where I'm from? But my accent is American."

"Maybe you moved over here when you were still young, and lost the accent."

For a few more moments, her mind scrambled to place the information, resting inexplicably on an unfamiliar coin she'd sketched in her notebook once. Was it South African? Why did it feel important to her now, when it had just been a doodle before?

Arriving at no conclusions, she instead returned to the present moment to find Weller watching her with trepidation. Waiting for her to fully realise what he'd done.

"You knew where I was born and raised, and you didn't tell me." She wanted to be angry, but she just felt blank. Lost. "Patterson didn't tell me. Mayfair didn't tell me."

"I asked them not to. Blame me."

"Did Reade and Zapata know too?" Had they all been holding out on her? Why hide something so critically important?

"No. Patterson ran the test, and when I didn't act on the information she gave me, she took it to Mayfair. I wouldn't let either of them tell you the truth."

"Because my DNA said I was Taylor and that was the only thing you wanted to hear." Jane's stomach lurched. Just when she'd thought she was done surveying the devastation that Taylor Shaw's ghost had wreaked on her life, yet more rubble crashed down from the rafters to bury her. Would she ever be free of the wreckage?

"I wasn't thinking clearly. I can admit that now. I'm sorry, Jane." Weller met her eyes with a guilt-stricken, remorseful gaze. The man had his flaws and his delusions, but when he apologised, he made sure she knew he meant it.

Not that it meant she had to accept that apology. She didn't know if she could even acknowledge it.

"I wanted to believe you were Taylor. More than anything. But that doesn't excuse what I did. It wasn't fair to keep that information from you."

Out of nowhere, a memory flashed into Jane's consciousness.

She was running up a set of steps in a dry, dusty town, the foliage completely different from that native to the US. Giggles and exerted breaths tore from her chest, and her sundress flapped around her knees as she reached the doorway at the top. "I won!"

Behind her, a young boy's voice yelled, "That's not fair, Alice!"

"Alice?" Jane whispered, trying to slow her whirling thoughts.

"Jane? You okay?"

She stood up, needing to put as much distance between them as she could. If leaving the apartment had been an option, she would have done it, but though he'd assured her that the CIA were backing off, he wouldn't tell her why. Until she was sure what was happening on that front, she wasn't taking any chances. An apartment's worth of distance would have to suffice for now.

"My name before all this. I remembered. It was Alice."

For an instant, he looked intrigued, curious about the new memory. Then he must have realised how much it magnified his mistake, because devastation crossed his face. "I should have told you right away."

The anger that had been missing before ripped through her with a vengeance now. "If I had known my name or my origins before, I could have weighed that against what Oscar was telling me. If he'd told me I was Taylor, that I was born in Clearfield, I would have known he was lying to me. Maybe I would have had some more memories. Maybe things would have turned out differently with Mayfair. Maybe none of this would have happened!"

Weller was silent, his jaw clenched. Was he angry with her too? He didn't have the right, not anymore.

"You let your delusions blind you to the facts, you blinded me to suit your own bias, and you played me right into their hands. I hope those few months where you thought you had Taylor back were worth it."

Trembling with rage and heartache, she made a beeline for the bedroom and shut out the sight of his stunned expression.