Notes: If you don't know what 'checking the oil' means as a wrestling term, look it up. The song quoted herein is by Sarah Bareilles.
"Sometimes I can be perfectly sweet
Got this sugary me all stuffed up in my sleeve…"
Lena turns down the radio momentarily while considering the street signs. She's never been in this particular part of town before and unsure whether she took a wrong turn or if Fern St. turned into Carroway St. Unfortunately, google maps is not along for the ride, so she turns the radio back up and throws the car in reverse.
"But like most creatures down here on the ground
I'm composed of the elements moving around
I grow and change and I shift and I switch
And it turns out I'm actually kind of a bitch…"
Ah. Turns out she should have veered right. Lena continues down Fern St., humming merrily.
"But that only happens when I get provoked
By some piece of shit asshole we all sadly know…"
Lena giggles and turns the radio up a little louder to cover her voice and belts out the chorus.
"And that guy's an asshole!
That girl's a bitch!"
Alone by her onesies is the only place Lena will sing, but despite lackluster skill and dubious talents, sing she does.
"So sing it out with me
And then let it go
Fuck that guy, he's just an aaaaaasssshooollle!"
Except there are some things that one should not, and Lena will not, let go. Well, she will let it all go once the problem is dealt with. Aggressive optimism aside, one does need to lance the boils every now and then.
A large red brick building looms around the corner, surrounded by a perfect lawn of smooth white snow that is probably perfect green grass in the summer. Lena turns the radio down again, alert and craning her neck about the parking lot, looking for a space in the shadows. Luckily for the residents of Green Fern Estates and unluckily for Lena, lit parking is available in spades; there are only a couple spots in the periphery that lie in partial shadow. Lena's not overly concerned. The car is from the office pool, and John has already given blank check permission…mostly blank check permission, she reminds herself, within reason.
Before he first put a gun in her hands, Tim had given her two rules: one, you don't ever pull a weapon unless you're prepared to use it, and two, you shoot to kill. Hopefully, tonight will not test that too harshly. After all, the man she's going to see tonight isn't going to behead her and put the video on the internet.
Carte blanche or not, Lena's nervous. A gun in your hand is like having a clear paved path through a swamp, but that clear paved path has a toll you only pay once you're on the other side. It's so much easier to walk on pavement than struggle through the swamp. Lena remembers that heroin feeling. She also remembers when the high wore off and she'd had ample time to consider the price of crossing.
Lena passes her fingers lightly over the lump in her coat pocket. It's kind of like standing on the edge of a cliff. You know you shouldn't jump, but somehow there's always a voice telling you 'It's right there. It would be so easy'.
She'd bought a holster, but after a few practice draws found it to be woefully slower than in the movies. It's easier to keep a grip on if it's in her pocket. Besides, it's in her left pocket and she's right handed, and it's cold outside. A hand in a pocket won't be immediately suspicious.
Pulling her scarf around her nose, Lena steps out of the car, careful not to slip on any black ice. You'd think for the rent this place must bring in, they wouldn't stint on salt for the parking lot. She'd bought a coat at a thrift store, a large marshmallowy parka she'd normally never be caught dead in. Between that, the scarf, and some snow pants, she'll look about twenty-five pounds heavier and of indeterminate age to any security cameras.
The door to 1B, painted a neutral, boring shade of grey-blue, opens fifteen seconds after a sharp knock.
"Lena?"
"Steven, sorry it's late." Lena smiles and shifts the leather file holder in her hand. His eyes follow the motion, and he steps aside to let her in. Gullible little shit. No, stop swearing. We are calm like ice, dollface, clear-headed.
"Can I take your coat?" She takes that and the scarf off and passes them over. "Would you like anything to drink?" he asks, already on his way into the kitchen, "I've got tea, coffee, cocoa." He eyes the file folder again. "Got something stronger too if you need it." Steven has the easy air of a man talking to a favorite mentor; he probably thinks everyone save John has fallen for his bullshit. Lena shudders inwardly.
"Tea please."
"Mint, chamomile, or English breakfast?"
"Mint would be perfect."
While Steve busies himself filling the kettle and putting it on the stove, Lena sets the portfolio on the kitchen counter.
"Oh Lena, perfect come in."
John waves her over and moves a clutter of papers off one of the chairs in front of his desk. The other is occupied by a tall blond woman perhaps a few years younger than she. Lena eyes her while pretending to make fun of the mess on John's desk.
She's attractive, very attractive, Lena notices, restraining a double take, the sort of woman who probably wouldn't need to be photoshopped if her picture was on the cover of a magazine. Weirdly, and Lena chastises herself for such uncharitable thinking, for a natural beauty she has terrible fashion sense. Her clothes are too baggy, her hair is pulled back too severely, and she's wearing a jacket in the middle of summer.
"There's a method to all this, ladies, I swear," John says, moving aside a half-eaten tuna salad sandwich that he'd probably meant to have for lunch but is now beginning to smell queer.
"And I didn't find your keys in your trashcan last week," says Lena. It had taken them twenty minutes of searching too.
"Shut up, woman." The blond's mouth thins. "Now then," he says, finally settled, "Lena, this is Oona. Oona, Lena." They shake hands, and the woman named Oona tries to smile. "Lena, Oona here has a problem. I'm trusting you to fix it."
Oona looks at the two of them like they're bible-thumping missionaries who've just knocked on her door – politely, but with limited tolerance and without a shred of faith.
Lena takes a breath and reminds herself that regardless of motivation keeping an even temper in the moment is necessary.
"Steven." Lena opens the portfolio but keeps it tipped towards her to block the contents from his sight. She removes three already opened envelopes and slides them across the counter. "I need you to take a look at these." She takes the gun out of her pocket and lets it rest hidden just under the decorative tile trim.
He knows what the envelopes are about three seconds after she lays them on the counter. His eyebrows take too long before going up in fake surprise. Steve takes an envelope and pulls out the blue sheet of paper within. Lena lets him carry on the charade a little longer while he pretends to read.
"Creepy huh?" Lena says with casual disdain, brows raised, daring him to continue feigning innocence.
Steve looks up, and like the stupid sack of rancid crap he is, keeps trying when he ought to give up. "It's a little intense, yeah." He'd been smart enough to type the letter and not sign his name or leave fingerprints, but Lena can't help the feelings of incredulity at the statement. He still thinks he can weasel out of this.
With a quick flick of her thumb, she switches off the safety.
"Steve, stop digging this hole before it gets too deep to climb out of." The kettle begins whistling, and he turns to take it off the burner. Lena tenses, prepared for him to reach for the knife block next to the stove. He doesn't, instead pouring hot water over a tea bag in a bright yellow mug.
"You can't seriously think those are mine." He's a damn good liar, she'll give him that, a quality which in and of itself grates on her.
Lena proceeds, ready to get through this efficiently. "Let's skip this part. You're only pissing me off. Look, you have two options. One," Lena lifts a finger, "you turn yourself in and accept whatever plea deal you're offered. Or two, I'll have you arrested this evening and you can take your chances in court."
"Lena –"
"Pick one."
"Wow, look seriously." Steve holds up his hands, palms out. His dedication to the role of confused victim is admirably solid. If Lena weren't already 110% sure of his guilt she'd have second thoughts.
"If you can't pick, then I will."
"Okay, whatever it is," Steve waves at the letters on the counter, "you think I've done –"
"Right, option two." Lena raises the gun, letting her wrist sit braced against the tile corner.
"Holy shit, what the fuck!" He finally seems to grasp the severity of the situation.
"Would you rather option one?"
"You can't shoot me." This sounds rather rich coming from the only person not holding the gun. "I know you well enough to know you'd never kill an innocent person."
"Lucky for my conscience you're not innocent."
"It was just a few letters!" Lena remembers Oona's face at their first meeting. It was never 'just' anything. "Look, I won't talk to her again geeze. I'm not sure what she said or where she got the idea that this was such a thing." Lena is beginning to sincerely understand the term 'crime of passion', but as much as that paved road looks nice, she's brought her high rubber boots to withstand the muck of the swamp.
"You were already warned. Didn't really seem to get the picture. Now pick."
Steve looks around helplessly, like someone might burst through the door and to his rescue. Eventually, there's a defiant, "I'll take my chances in court."
Lena lays the leather portfolio open on the counter. "You ever take heroin, Steve?"
He looks at the syringe and the sharp needle attached to it. "Oh fuck no, are you serious?"
"There is a third option we haven't discussed." Lena taps the barrel of the gun on the counter.
Steve's face is turning redder and redder, and his breath is coming in shorter bursts. "All this over a fucking letter? Look I don't know what she said but –"
"Steve." He goes on a bit longer, and finally Lena cuts him off with a sharp, "Steve!" and another rap of the gun barrel on the edge of the counter. She chips a piece of tile. "You've chosen option two. This means that either you take the heroin, all of it, or I shoot you in the stomach and inject it for you. This can either look like a tragic accidental overdose – No, shut up. That's not enough to kill you, but have fun in rehab. Or. This will look like a drug deal gone horribly wrong, and let me tell you, a gut wound is hard to survive."
"The neighbors would hear –"
"Yes, and the police have an excellent response time, especially in a neighborhood like this. I'm sure they would admire that I tried to save you from an unknown intruder who tried to rob you of a rather large stash of drugs just as much as they would admire that I was also trying to save you from a dangerous addiction."
"I've got a damn good lawyer you know."
"That's nice, Steve."
In the end Steve chooses the easy version of option two, no doubt convinced that his 'damn good lawyer' will easily bring down a possession narcotics charge. Lena puts a few more bags of heroin in a locked box at the tops of his closet. Felony distribution is a lot more awkward than possession and will also carry a higher sentence than harassment and stalking. Then she makes him dial 911 and waits until he completes the call for an ambulance before making her way downstairs and back to her car.
Lena feels keyed up, her body having prepared for action and then merely walked away from it. She takes the pistol from her pocket and tucks it away in her purse, an odd, double-edged good luck charm if ever there was one. After firing off a quick text to John (My stomach's better. Two tums did the trick.), she sits in the car for a while, willing her body to stop jittering. Sitting still doesn't seem to be the answer, so instead she drives. D.C. has strict speed limits, and she doesn't want to be pulled over, so instead she drives in wide, meandering circles until her muscles relax properly. When she finally heads home, and has the capacity to focus on both the road and a phone, she calls Oona.
"Boss lady, it's fucking two in the morning."
Lena smiles. "Sorry, Oona."
"Well, Christ, whatcha need?"
"I'm taking a long vacation, but I want you to know, I found a new type of bug spray that got rid of the cockroach problem at the office."
There's a protracted silence on the other end of the line. "They're gone? Like…actually gone?"
"Yeah."
"Huh." There's a hint of skepticism that Lena doesn't take offense at.
"You can keep using the old bug spray for a while, just in case." Dave and Suki probably wouldn't like being referred to as bug spray, but they're not in on this conversation.
"You're really serious?"
"Yep. Also, hey, listen. Someone will probably ask about me. Don't lie. Just tell them I asked you for a couple of files."
"What files?"
"Anything on GenCorp."
"Those are at the office," Oona says uncertainly, "which… you already have anyways?"
"So you can't give them to me now."
"…No?"
"Good. Now tell them that when they ask about me."
"Who's they?"
"Probably army CID. If they want to see any of your work, tell them they have to go through John. And don't lie for me."
"Um. Wow, so what the fucking hell is going on?"
"Stuff."
"Seriously? That's all you got?"
"Yep."
Lena can hear Oona glaring through the phone. "You coming back?"
"Probably."
"You're running off with that Ranger aren't you?" Oona tries for light, but it feels stilted.
A flit of shadow crosses Lena's face. "No."
"If you need anything…"
Lena ponders that a moment. "Was there anyone at the FBI you didn't hate?"
"Chick named Kelsey McCoy. Bomb ass investigator. She's got a helluva bs detector too."
"Sounds like what I'll need."
Oona laughs, and then after a pause, "Your life will be terrible without me you know."
A corner of Lena's mouth twists up. "You brighten my day, Oona. Don't ever change."
o.O.o
Tim watches a fist go flying past his face. Heh. Fucker. The elbow attached to the fist had swung out wide, slowing the punch and making it easy to dodge. That's what you get for watching WWE and boxing all day. In a real fight you don't just stand there and let someone hit you. Compared to sadistic drill sergeants and years of grappling and hand-to-hand with a unit that takes the Oil Check trophy very seriously this scrawny ass motherfucker may as well be a Chihuahua trying to take on a German shepherd.
Tim sidesteps, at the same time turning to grab the guy by the belt and giving it a savage yank to the right. A snap kick to his feet and he goes down on the pavement with Tim's knee in his back.
His hand-to-hand training hinged on two simple principles: how to kill efficiently and how to cause enough pain to force capitulation. Killing fugitives is frowned upon when it's not strictly necessary, which this isn't, so he's left with the second principle: enough pain to cause capitulation. However, none of his drill sergeants or ring partners was ever floating on PCP during a bout. Even with all Tim's weight pressing through the hard point of his knee and into the guy's spine and his elbow wrenched up behind his back, he pushes up and back, throwing Tim momentarily to the side.
There'd been this one dude when Tim was going through basic, Palmetti, big ass motherfucker, probably a former defensive lineman. Guy was basically armored in muscle. Trying to fight him was like trying to fight a mountain. No one had the mass to put enough power behind a hit when it came to this guy. It was like those dreams where you try to punch someone and but your fist just slows down and no matter how hard you try it ends up being a light tap. Tim hates those dreams. He has them often.
Somehow this scrawny asshole has the same superpowers as Palmetti and all the dream villains Tim was never able to properly punch. Frankly, shooting the squirrely little fucker in a non-fatal portion of his anatomy is an attractive – and at this point not unwarranted – course of action. However, he has a bet. And he means to win that bet, so his gun stays holstered, and instead Tim kicks the guy, this time full in the stomach, and jumps on his back again, wrapping an arm under his chin. No matter how high you are, everyone needs oxygen.
But it's like wrestling a crocodile if that crocodile were the bastard offspring from a one-night stand between a crocodile and the energizer bunny. Most people panic when you try to choke them. Apparently PCP relieves you of such petty concerns. Scrawny Asshole throws himself up, but even with drug-induced super powers Tim's weight causes him to topple back down again. They both fall forward in a graceless, uncontrolled manner that causes Tim's forehead to crack against the pavement.
Dazed and growing increasingly irate by the second, Tim decides that if the Scrawny Asshole is a crocodile then he's a Gila monster. Once those get their jaws around something they don't let go. Pascal, who came from Albuquerque, told them all about a time where he had to decapitate a Gila monster when it bit his brother's arm. He'd held a lighter under its stomach first in an attempt to make it let go, but that little fucker held on. Right now that thing is Tim's goddamned spirit animal.
"Holy shit." Rachel jogs over and snaps first one handcuff and then the other on Scrawny Asshole's wrists, the latter still struggling to push himself back up, though at this point his efforts are growing weaker.
"You," Tim's still a little out of breath, "owe me five bucks."
"Excuse me?"
"Gun." He points to his waist. "Holster."
"Oh Jesus. How about I drive us back to the office, and not tell Art you were an idiot."
"Hey, you laughed at me." Rachel had indeed scoffed in his face when Tim had taken one look at their scrawny fugitive and said, 'We don't even need guns for this.' In hindsight, he probably should have listened to her because she's dealt with her fair share of drugged up criminals.
"And you deserve that black eye you got now."
Tim lifts his fingers to the eyebrow that had recently smashed into the pavement. It feels tender and squishier than usual. "You still owe me," he says somewhat petulantly. This is about honor.
"Here." When they're in the car with Scrawny Asshole stowed in the backseat, Rachel hands him two bottles, one of pills and one of water. "For the headache." It's Midol. Tim glares, and tosses it back in her purse. Rachel mutters under her breath about the stubborn idiocy of men. By the time they get back to the office, his left eyeball feels like someone pumped it full to bursting with liquid and his head's about to crack half open. He looks at Rachel's purse, wishful, but when she sees him, brow arching pointedly, Tim pretends the moment had never been and steps out of the car. That's also about honor.
o.O.o
"I seem to remember you telling me this would be easy." Art gives him the smugly satisfied look of 'I told you so' over the rim of his coffee cup. Tim's eye throbs. He can see the cogs turning in Art's mind, already drawing the (admittedly obvious) conclusions and preparing to be annoyed.
"Hey," says Tim preemptively, "I didn't do shit this time."
"That's the problem isn't it?" Rachel says, but low enough that only Tim, who stands next to her, heard it.
"That how you got a black eye? You just lay there and let someone hit you?"
"Yeah, I needed a massage. Figured it was cheaper than going to a spa."
"You're lucky he didn't have any hot stones." Art sips at his coffee. "Go throw your gear in a locker and get in the conference room. Got a new job for you." He doesn't wait for a response before turning on his heel and heading back inside.
Tim's about to go do just that when he looks through the floor to ceiling glass windows of the conference room and stops.
"You get a concussion? I said guns away first and then get in here." Art looks up at Tim, who's standing in the doorway, bag still in hand.
But Tim's attention is focused on the woman sitting across from Art. She looks different. Her hair's shorter, and black instead of brown. Despite being late in the day, her black suit is perfectly crisp and without a single wrinkle. Glittery red fingernails match her equally ridiculous red heels. Except they're in the United States now, not Afghanistan, and those are normal here.
"Tim?" She recognizes him too, half stands.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
"Tim." Art's sharp reprimand brings him back around, but not enough to remember tact.
"What's she doing here?" he asks Art instead.
"Ma'am, you'll have to excuse him –"
"No, it's fine, I –"
"And who's that?" On Lena's other side sits a dark-skinned man in a plain blue button down who has so far remained silent, looking curiously between her and the two Marshals.
"Tim," Lena stands fully and gestures to the man beside her, mouth quirking up in a wry smile, "meet Dr. Sayeed al'Faheen.