Hey guys! I'm back. Again, sorry this took me so long. It's summer now though, so I should be updating a little more quickly. Hope you're still reading, and if you are, thanks for your patience! And thanks for the great reviews; they really make me excited to keep writing and it makes me really happy to know you guys are liking the story. :)

Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Nope.

Chapter Nine

Mustang

Jane Carter had to admit, she was pretty done with dealing with other peoples' shit.

It wasn't like she hadn't expected this kind of thing when she'd become an agent. She knew her average workday would feature kidnappings, terrorist plots, clichéd car chases and the occasional torture, where the most excitement in a "normal" person's schedule would be a flat tire on the freeway. She'd known she would be hunted, exploited, objectified, and abandoned, and generally thrown into terrifying, potentially damaging situations on a daily basis. Of course she'd known. If she hadn't, she would never have survived Cobalt. Hell, she wouldn't have survived basic field training. She knew what it was like to take heat, of many kinds.

That being said, she was getting really tired of waking up tied to immovable objects.

She was secured with her back to a padded table with strong canvas straps tethering her ankles, wrists, and waist, but there was no strap on her forehead, which was something. Jane slowly opened her eyes.

There wasn't much to see. A damp, dripping darkness. She lifted her head, which sent a red-hot spear of pain through the top of her skull to the base of her spine. Jane swallowed a moan. Okay, concussion. Awesome. She gently lowered herself back down and her body hummed from the jolt of agony.

Trying to alleviate the pounding in her head, Jane closed her eyes and sent her other senses out. She could hear a soft rustling somewhere beyond her cell door, like mice running over tile. The air was stale and stuffy and reeked of sweat, mildew and something colder–fear. And it didn't move– at all. Not a flicker of breeze, no air currents from a person's movement.

The realization hit her like a bat to the stomach.

She was underground.

Instantly Jane's heart rate jacked up. Her palms started sweating. Every breath felt heavy in her chest, like the ceiling had fallen down, crushing her. The edges of her vision started to blur with panic as her entire body tingled with the need to get out. She clenched her teeth, trying to bring her terror under control.

She'd never told any other agent, not even her team. Field operators typically found themselves staking out in caves or scurrying through sewers–just look at when she and Benji broke Ethan out of prison–but she'd always had to force herself to do it. It usually required a twenty-minute look-in-the-mirror pep talk (or half a bottle of really good red wine and some reruns of Supernatural the night before), so by the time she was actually in the field her phobia wasn't as much of a problem. It was always there, curdling in the back of her mind, adding a spark of panic to some of her movements, but she never let it impair her judgment or even show on her face when she was around the others. She could deal with it. She always had.

She'd had no such preparation this time.

Breathe, Jane. Breathe. She clenched her teeth in an attempt to bring herself under control. A whimper slipped past her lips.

God damn it. She was better than this. Pushing away the blind panic, she lifted her head again, this time welcoming the pain. Better pain than fear.

Beyond her feet was more darkness, but this bit of darkness featured a square of muddy yellow light at what she figured was head-height. A window, then. As her eyes adjusted, she saw hair-thin stripes of light outlining a tall rectangle. A door. She lowered her head back down and stared at the soupy blackness above her.

So, she was underground, in a room with a door and a window. How specific. Really narrowed it down.

Jane snarled lightly. The pain in her skull and the concussion-induced fog in her mind made it hard to think. She breathed in again and closed her eyes.

Use what you know. That's what Ethan always told them. Go over what you now, isolate what you don't, and act.

What did she know?

She was underground–trying not to think about the fact that she was underground–tied to a table. She had been unconscious for an unknown period of time, due to blunt force trauma to her skull. Before that, she had been with Brandt and Benji in Walter's flat in London–

London. The answer clicked in her mind like a key in a lock.

The catacombs beneath the city. Built under churches and cemeteries as a final resting place for the dead. Some had the capacity to hold thousands of coffins. Underground, limited in depth by the water table.

Well, that would explain the dripping she heard. And the damp and dark and, y'know, undergroundness–

Don't think about it, Jane.

So, she could be in the London catacombs. It was likely. Even though she couldn't be sure, it made her feel slightly less terrified to know she might know where she was.

As for what she didn't know…

The list was overwhelming. Who had captured her. Where Benji and Brandt were. Where Walter was. If Ethan was even alive. If any of them were even still alive.

The idea that she was the last one standing scared her more than the weight of the rock above her. She swallowed the fear. She was an agent, and she was still alive. She had a job to do.

Use what you know, and act.

Before she could figure out exactly what to act on, a noise to her left made her freeze.

A scraping rattle, a cough–then a moan. And a familiar-sounding mutter.

Hope galvanized her. "Walter?" she whispered.

The rattle came again, chain against rock. "Jane? Thank God. I thought I was alone in this muggy little pit."

Jane laughed weakly, sagging against the table. "Me too." She could taste the relief, mingled with disappointment and fear. As glad as she was that she didn't have to suffer through this alone, Walter's presence meant another person she had to look out for. And shame–they had brought a civilian into this mess, and now he was in danger. Benji's uncle, for God's sake.

But then she remembered hazily that Walter had been an agent himself. Maybe having him here would give them each a fighting chance.

"Are you hurt?" she asked.

Walter rattled again in the darkness. "I got a bit of a bump on the head, but I don't think it will be too much of a problem. These old bones are stronger than they look. You?"

"Same," Jane answered. "Monitor yourself, and let me know if it gets worse."

"Yes, ma'am," Walter chuckled. "Don't worry about me, Jane. This is not the first time I've woken up chained to a wall."

"You're chained?" asked Jane, an idea kindling. "What else?"

"Ummm…" she heard him moving around, running his hands over the walls. "I can't quite see, but it seems I'm in a small room. Rock walls, wet. Chains on my wrists and ankles attached to four metal rings on the wall behind me."

"Are we in the same room?"

Walter was silent, then– "I haven't the foggiest. We could be, or there could be a grating between us. I can't reach you, the chains are a wee bit short."

Jane blew out a breath. "Right. No hope of you getting over here and undoing these restraints, then."

She could almost feel him frown. "You mean you're not chained?"

"No, I'm strapped to a table."

"Oh, dear. That would make it more difficult."

Jane raised an eyebrow arbitrarily. "You sound pretty calm for a man who just got kidnapped from his own apartment."

"Like I said Janie, not the first time." Walter sounded almost gleeful. "In fact, it's nice to be back in the thick of things. Retirement can be frightfully boring."

A noise came from the direction of the door– footsteps, heavy and deliberate. Jane tensed. The door moaned open, dirty yellow light inundating the room. She flinched, her eyes throbbing.

She had a split-second view of a dark figure darting up to her before something dark and scratchy was thrown over her face. Burlap.

Jane's entire body seized as panic again rose in her throat.

She could deal with being tied up. She could deal with being blind. She could even deal with being underground. But all three at once had her pushing the edge of hysteria. She squirmed, probably not very subtly, against her bonds, trying to give an outlet to her fear.

A cold hand clamped over wrist. She froze.

"Don't struggle," came a quiet whisper from her right. "They'll just hit you harder."

Jane didn't try to keep the surprise off her face–it wasn't like anyone could see it. The speaker sounded cautious, quiet, surreptitious, and unmistakably young. Not exactly what she had been expecting.

The hand left her wrist, and the speaker started setting something up next to her judging by the sounds, but Jane couldn't discern exactly what.

"Where am I?" she asked, quiet and careful. "Who are you?"

Silence, save the sounds of whatever he was creating. Jane could feel Walter away to the side, listening attentively. She could also sense the tension in the air, the apprehension of whoever had hoodwinked her. Fear, when handled badly, was a weakness. Perhaps one she could use to her advantage.

Jane let her tone lose some of its earlier edge. "Who is 'they'?" she asked. "How do you know they don't like it when you squirm?" More silence. Jane's voice dropped. "Did they hit you harder when you squirmed?"

A tiny catch of breath next to her. A flash of triumph at her perception warred with sympathy–she'd been hoping she was wrong. Still, perhaps there was a window there. Maybe he knew the lay of the land. If they could work together to get out of here…

Voice soft, she asked, "What's your name?"

Pain like a shard of lightning stabbed itself into the crook of her elbow. Surprise made her hiss even as dread boiled in her stomach. She knew that pain– a needle. What the hell had he just injected her with?

"Jane?" Walter called, panicked, breaking the silence. "Are you all right? What did he do?"

"I'm fine, Walter," she said, but her words were slurring. Sedatives. Fantastic. Pretty powerful, but the way the edges of her thought began to blur. She struggled to hold on to consciousness, but the drugs tied weights to her mind and threw it into the sea.

Just before she went under, the bag was taken off her face. She took in a patch of dark skin and curly hair as her eyes slid shut. Warm breath on her cheek as he whispered, "Logan."

Name. His name is Logan. Hope was the last thing Jane felt before reality sank away.

()()()

The first clear thought in her mind was: I'm awake.

The next was I'm still underground.

She felt the press of the rock above her as distinctly as the faint throb still muttering in her temples. Panic. She pushed it down and opened her eyes.

It was still dark, but not the tangible darkness of before. There were bars on both her sides, and a wall out in front. She could see her hand in front of her face when she lifted it–

Jane started upright. She wasn't on the table anymore. Her back was against a cold, hard surface, but her legs were out in front of her, and her arms were free. She brought a hand to her temple and felt flakes of dried blood fall from her hair.

Clink. Chain slithered on the ground next to her as she moved. Her hands were secured separately with heavy metal cuffs, which were attached to the wall by thick chain. Jane scoffed. How medieval.

She cast out her senses. The water-sound of before was gone. The room was silent save the faint huff of her breath. Her stomach dropped.

"Walter?"

Silence.

In desperation, she called, "Logan?"

More silence– then, to her left, a swish of fabric on fabric.

She grabbed it, trying not to let her panic bleed into her voice. "Logan, are you there?"

More swishing, then through the diluted dark she saw two pale brown hands wrap around the bars to her left. A thin, dirty face and two luminous eyes that caught the faint light in the room followed. "You're awake," whispered Logan.

Jane let her head fall back on the wall in relief. "Yeah, I'm awake," she said, copying his soft tone. "Thanks for not leaving me alone down here."

Logan was silent, but she could feel his gaze, the intensity of his listening. On guard.

A question that had been prodding her since she'd first heard his voice escaped Jane's lips. "Logan, how old are you?"

Logan hesitated. Then, quietly: "Ten."

Jane's mouth fell open. Ten? Ten? Awesome. She was captured, chained to a wall, and her only assets were a senior ex-agent currently MIA and a tweenager who probably hadn't even had the Talk yet. She was screwed.

Jane breathed out, regaining her composure. Time to begin. If they were going to get out of here alive, she couldn't coddle this kid.

"Logan, do you know who I am?"

"Yes. You're an IMF agent."

"That's right." Jane shifted slightly, looking into his eyes. "And do you know what that means? What I do?"

"You kill people."

Jane couldn't stop the catch in her breath the boy's words incurred. She stuffed the ever-present guilt that flared up back into its hole to be dealt with later and pressed on. "I have killed people, yes. But believe me, Logan, I wish I didn't have to."

"Then why do you do it?" His voice was so flat, emotionless, yet it demanded an answer.

Jane's voice caught in her throat. She'd never really asked herself before. Not in such a point-blank way.

Why did she kill?

She didn't enjoy it. She hated it. She hated the fact she had to kill. She didn't become an agent to slake some primal bloodlust. She knew some agents who had, and she'd secretly always detested them. That was one of the reasons she got along with her team so well. Benji took so long to pass the field exam because he didn't think he'd be able to take another person's life in the line of duty. Brandt killed in self-defense, or in the defense of others. Jane also suspected he killed out of fear of the consequences if he didn't kill. Inaction burdened him for five years with the needless guilt of Julia Hunt's "murder". And Ethan hated it most of all of them–which was darkly ironic, seeing as how he was the oldest, most experienced agent among them. Jane couldn't imagine how many people had come to their ends by Ethan's hand, either deliberately or indirectly. But she, Brandt and Benji all knew he abhorred the killing. Abhorred it to his bones. He'd never outright said it, but she had seen the guilt and self-hatred in his eyes whenever the conversation went that way, on the rare, rare occasions their team leader ever opened up to them.

Yet she knew Ethan would kill, again and again until his hands were stained irrevocably, in order to preserve that which he loved. And he loved them, his team. For all his intensity, his frequent coldness and borderline scariness, Jane was sure of that.

The answer fell into her mind like a pebble into a reflecting pool. Jane grinned to herself. How was it her team always helped her figure it out? Well, that was why they were her team, she guessed.

"I kill because there are people in this world I love, Logan," she said. "And they are constantly in danger. I kill to keep them safe. I kill because there are people I need to protect." She met his eyes, or what she hoped were his eyes. "Does that make sense?"

Logan was still. Jane sensed he was mulling over her words. Coming to a decision.

"Yeah, it does make sense," he said finally. "You're like Lieutenant Hawkeye. She told Winry she killed people to protect someone– Colonel Mustang."

Jane's eyes widened. "You like Fullmetal Alchemist?" Another secret she'd never shared with her boys–she'd never really grown out of her anime phase. Hey, everyone needed something to take the edge off reality. Never thought it might be useful on a mission, though.

Logan nodded emphatically, his face suddenly lighting up. "Oh, yeah! Just Brotherhood, though. The first anime sucks."

"Definitely," she agreed. "I'm with you. I cried at the end, when Ed gets stuck in that other world, so far from home."

Logan went quiet. "Like you. You're far from home, aren't you?"

Jane's smile faded. "Yeah, Logan. I'm trying to get back. Because for me, my team, those people I need to protect? They're home."

Logan shifted again, settling against the bars. He said nothing, but Jane could feel his pensiveness.

"My big brother is home for me, then. I guess," he said suddenly, almost desperately. "He was here, but they took him away. I want him to come back. We had to travel a lot, and he told me to pretend I was Al, and he was Ed. We'd stick together no matter what, protect each other. But they took him away." Jane could hear the tears in his voice now. "They took him away. I want him back." He slumped against the bars, sobbing almost soundlessly.

"So let's go find them," Jane said fiercely. "We both have people we need to get home to, Logan. Let's get out of here and find them."

"I've tried," whimpered Logan. "They catch me. They always catch me."

"But you're not alone now," said Jane. 'Together. We can get out of here, Logan. We can get home." She shuffled over to the bars, where the crying boy was curled in misery. She touched his shackled hand gently through the bars. "What do you say?"

Logan looked up. His cheeks were wet. Jane didn't think she'd never seen such manifest despair.

"We've got to fight," she whispered, distantly realizing tears of her own were falling down her face. "We've got to fight for who we love. Together, we can make it out of here. We can make it home."

Logan didn't move. Then, slowly, he closed his small, grimy hand around Jane's own. He looked into her eyes, and Jane saw a fire there. Anger– and hope.

"Don't call me Logan," he said. "Only my brother calls me that."

Jane sniffled. "Okay. What should I call you?"

Logan looked momentarily puzzled, like he hadn't thought that far ahead. "I don't know."

Jane thought, then smiled. "You're a spy now. You need a codename anyway. How about this– I'm Hawkeye. You're Mustang."

A young smile, so out of place in all the fear and misery around them, lit the boy's features. "Mustang. Okay. I like it." He quirked his eyebrows, and for a moment Jane thought she saw in his expression a youthful, innocent need for someone bigger than him to make it all okay again. "Wait…if I'm Mustang, and you're Hawkeye…does that mean you'll protect me?"

Jane secretly bit her lip, not taking her eyes off the boy. Her training told her, probably truthfully, that this was a bad idea, a liability, that becoming invested in this boy would get them all killed. But in her treacherous soul she knew she would never be able to leave this boy behind in any sense. She would get him back to his brother, no matter what.

Jane nodded. "We get out of here together, or not at all," she said. "I'll protect you, Mustang. It's a promise." Logan–Mustang– grinned tentatively. She grinned back.

And tried to silence the voice in the back of her mind whispering, Don't make promises you know you can't keep.