Note: I trust you can see why this took a bit longer to finish. I kept revisiting my imagining of what happened behind the blinds, and I hope this is fairly believable. I by no means claim to be an expert on torture. Also, unless otherwise stated, all of the flashbacks take place during Ian's time in Afghanistan. This part of his character just intrigues me, and it disappoints me that they never really expanded on it in the show.
When Ian found himself called in to a briefing with the SpecOps brass at 0400, he generally took it as a good sign that it could be the last day of his life. That never bothered him. Why should it bother me to die doing what I live for? The Colonel had yet to arrive, so the briefing room was packed mostly with field officers and a few senior NCO's quietly contemplating what could be so damned important that they all had to be dragged from their precious five hours of nightly rest.
Ian knew the grumbling was mostly smokescreen for the concern or downright fear that most, if not all, of them were feeling. Because everyone high enough on the ladder to be in this room was experienced enough to know that when they pulled the officers out of their bunks this early in the morning, it usually meant something somewhere had somehow gone seriously FUBAR. And they would either have to readjust any current operational plans to compensate for it, or be the ones to go out and fix it.
Today, Edgerton would put his money on the latter. If he had any.
The murmuring ceased as abruptly as if someone had flipped a switch and the entire room stood to attention as the Colonel entered. Ian felt his heart skip a beat when he caught sight of the woman who walked at his side. Her usual eerily placid expression had been replaced by tense shoulders and a set jaw that spoke of grim determination. But it was her eyes that showed the most drastic change; the ever present calmness he so loved about them was still there, but it was shrouded in something... cold.
Her gaze always had a sort of distant quality to it, which Ian attributed to her remarkable mind. When she looked at someone, it was like she could see right through the surface and straight into the soul. She was always focused, hard to read. Harder than him, which had captivated him from the first time they'd spoken. But he had never seen her eyes like this, with the harsh, icy quality they had now. To say it terrified him would be an understatement.
The Colonel began the briefing, cutting right to the chase and informing them all quite bluntly that a squad of Rangers whose MH-47 had been shot down en route to a classified location had been captured by a Taliban cell operating out of the mountains about 50 kilometers northeast of the base. Which meant that their division was the closest and best-equipped for a rescue operation.
Edgerton had been involved in enough ops like this one to know that they were tricky, to say the least. The nature of this war made it difficult to fight under any circumstances, despite the UN forces having vastly superior military resources. The insurgent groups had the advantage of having spent their whole lives in these mountains, which made their guerrilla tactics dangerously effective even when the Army threw everything it had against them. They had been forced to bring back a lesson learned the hard way back in the Cold War days: play by their rules.
The Colonel allayed almost everyone's immediate concerns when he started outlining the plan for the mission. It was solid, planned to the letter and obviously based on some very detailed intel. Ian guessed he knew who to thank for that. The lines between specialties were a bit less solid in Special Operations than they were elsewhere in the military, and it was something of an open secret that, despite the ban on women serving in front line positions, this particular female intelligence specialist did more than a little "consulting" on the planning and "observation" on the execution of tactical operations.
There was nothing more rare and precious for Special Forces personnel than thorough and reliable information, which meant that questioning its accuracy or the methods by which it was obtained was the furthest thing from the minds of most of the people in the room. Though apparently not all.
"Sir," one of the officers, a captain from the 160th that Ian didn't recognize, began harshly after being given permission to speak. "With all due respect, aren't we taking a hell of a risk with relying on such a detailed plan? I mean, how do we know where their patrols are or how many guards they have on the prisoners?"
Everyone in the room was silent as they stared at the man. A few of the NCO's were shaking their heads, and one of the other officers was trying to motion for the arrogant captain to shut his mouth. Ian paid no attention to any of it, because his attention was focused on the deathly cold look the man was being shot by the one person he was blatantly ignoring. Ian's shock at her look turned to understanding as the captain continued his rant.
"I bet the damn spooks wouldn't be so willing to base ops on numbers they pulled out of their asses if they had to get out from behind their desks and get their hands dirty." Oh hell, she must have known it was coming. Guess there's a downside to that mind reading voodoo. "Where the hell would a little girl even get this kind of information from? No offense." Ian clenched his fists, and had to stop himself from picturing the ignorant bastard's head in his crosshairs.
"No offense," the woman in question responded dryly, without missing a beat. "But perhaps if you bothered to check your intel or had any actual experience working real operations, you would have the sense to figure out that half a dozen SpecOps commanders wouldn't base a critical rescue mission, especially one laid out so precisely, on anything less than complete 'disclosure' from a direct source. Like the Taliban operative captured by the Force Recon unit which happened to be in the area and arrived at the crash site immediately after the attack. And if you're that worried about the accuracy of the information you've received from 'the damn spooks,' you are welcome to learn how we obtain that information and get your hands dirty putting it to use. Sir."
The captain slowly sank back into his seat, wisely choosing not to dig himself a deeper hole by challenging her. Everyone in the room, except the Colonel, stared at her in absolute shock, not because of her flagrant breach of military protocol, but because it was probably the first time any of them had ever heard her speak. Her voice had held no anger or outrage whatsoever; it had been quiet and controlled, with the same icy calm as her eyes. And, somehow, Ian knew that her uncharacteristic lecture would not be the only evidence of how much whatever she had done to get their intel had taken from her.
Agent Ian Edgerton carefully scrutinized the look on Buck Winters's face as he let the conference room door slam shut behind him, instantly sealing out the hectic sounds of the FBI office and leaving the two of them in suffocating silence. Winters stubbornly maintained his obstinate expression, no doubt the same one he'd given Eppes when he'd asked him to give them Hoyle's location. Ostensibly, he was trying to convince Edgerton that he would not betray his lover.
But Ian knew better. No detail eluded his sharp eyes, and he had carefully honed his skills at reading people throughout his career. Skills I studied with the master. The slight widening of Buck's eyes as he recognized the agent who'd hunted them across the country, the stiffening of his spine as he registered the steely resolve in the man's dark eyes, the way he casually avoided making direct eye contact with the agent... all told Ian that Buck was actually trying to convince himself. Trying to play it cool, huh, you little bastard?
Edgerton made a show of closing the last set of blinds over the door before gradually turning to face Winters again. This time, their eyes met, and Ian took advantage of the young killer's first mistake. Ian's cold, penetrating gaze never left Buck's as he made a series of slow, deliberate movements: stepping up to the table, rolling up his sleeves to show the toned muscle underneath, leaning down to place his hands flat on the surface of the table and bring his face close to Buck's.
He smiled cruelly when Buck made his second mistake. He pulled back, ever so slightly, and Ian reached across to grab the front of his shirt and force him closer. "Hope you had fun on your little cross-country killing spree, because I don't think you're gonna get much chance to play the alpha dog when you're some gang banger's bitch. At least until they stick the needle in your arm."
To emphasize his point, Edgerton slapped his palm hard against the bullet wound in Buck's forearm, earning a grunt of pain. "You know what I said after I shot you?" He waited for the kid to raise his eyes to his again. When he didn't, instead turning his face away and casting his gaze toward the floor, Ian grabbed his chin and forced him to look up at him. "I said that it was better than you deserve. Some other agents might see you as some poor kid who made the wrong decisions, but I know better. No, you're just a damn scumbag who gets off on hurting people. Giving back to the world some of the pain that it's dealt you."
Contrary to common beliefs, simply beating information out of someone who was committed to keeping it secret very rarely worked. At least not very efficiently. Gotta get him to the point where he can't keep his mouth shut. Then it's just a matter of getting him to say the right things. In Edgerton's experience, pushing a stubborn and particularly violent suspect's buttons to make him angry generally yielded the best results.
Ian grabbed Winters by the arm, wrapping his hand tightly over his injury, and pulled him forward, so his entire upper body was precariously hanging over the table, his legs unable to find a position where they could hold his weight. "Well let me tell you something. There is no such thing as a license to kill. However shitty you think your life's been, you don't get to use that as an excuse. A crackpot behavioral scientist might buy your sob story as an explanation, but your little adolescent drama doesn't mean jack shit in the real world."
He dropped Winters roughly back into his seat. He could see by the clenched jaw and burning fury in his eyes that he was succeeding in breaking through the kid's apathetic front. Good. Now we're getting somewhere. Ian was playing off of something he'd observed when Eppes and Reeves had interrogated Winters after his arrest: the only time he'd shown any emotion was during his confession to killing his father.
"Your mommy died and Dad was a drinker, so you act out with violence like some spoiled child throwing a tantrum. You know what that makes you? Weak. Pathetic!"
"Shut up!" the kid screamed. "Shut the hell up!" Buck seemed to realize that he had made yet another mistake with his outburst, and quickly looked away. Ian moved to the other side of the table, bending over to get right in Buck's face.
"She was the only one who was there for you?" Ian chuckled darkly. "What a load of shit. You kill Dad, you run to her for help, and her solution is to take advantage of it? She used you. To satisfy her fantasies and her twisted need for revenge!"
"No!" Buck cried. "Crys would never do that. She loves me!" His words were adamant, but his voice wavered, ever so slightly.
Eppes hadn't been able to pull off that angle, but Ian was confident that he could still work it to their advantage. If only to screw with his head enough to get what I need out of it. What I wouldn't give for some mind reading voodoo right now...
Ian straightened and grabbed the back of the chair, yanking it away from the table and spinning it so Winters was facing him, anticipating the response to his next question. "Where do I find Crystal, Buck?"
"Go to hell, you son of a bi-" Buck's expletive died on his lips as Ian's fist slammed into his gut and drove the air from his lungs.
Usually, when a man had the misfortune of being placed in Ian Edgerton's crosshairs, it meant his life expectancy had suddenly been reduced to a matter of seconds. By all accounts, the sniper shouldn't hesitate to take this bastard down; he was an enemy, she was an ally, and he was brandishing a knife.
But Ian had been specifically ordered not to take any lethal shots unless it was absolutely necessary; the brass had made it abundantly clear that they wanted as few fatalities as possible during the rescue mission. On both sides. Ian guessed that they wanted to give their friends in Intelligence as many prisoners as possible to repay their less-than-honorable assistance in this rescue, but that wasn't the kind of thing that was acknowledged out loud, even in SpecOps.
He hesitated to admit that this had, thus far, been one of their most successful incursions into an enemy stronghold for fear of jinxing it. Ian didn't consider himself at all superstitious – in fact he was usually pretty rigid in his cool and rational way of looking at the world – but he also didn't need to go out of his way to bring misfortune upon himself. Or his fellow soldiers. Especially ones he happened to be in love with.
Last Ian had heard, the captive Rangers had been extracted and were on their way to the landing zone where the helicopter would pick them up. Now the rest of their forces were pulling back, tying up loose ends, and a few of the specialists were completing their orders to gather as much intel as they could. She had been down there looking over maps, instantly committing the locations of the enemy camps to her eidetic memory.
Woman or not, she wasn't the type of soldier to sit back and let others have all the fun. He admired that in her, except when it meant that he found himself watching her fend off a knife attack. He had sparred with her enough times to be painfully aware of her expertise in martial arts, but the heavy combat gear on her small frame negated her biggest advantage, and the one she needed most in close quarters: her agility. As the bastard advanced on her with the knife poised to sink into her chest, she came to the same conclusion, drawing her M9 and bringing it up to fire.
She never got the chance.
After coughing and sputtering for a moment trying to get oxygen back into his lungs, Buck Winters looked up into the cold, dark eyes of his tormentor. Ian could again see the fear that he was trying to mask with his anger. The kid had been arrogant enough to believe the FBI agents wouldn't actually use outright force to get information from him, and Edgerton was slightly unnerved at just how satisfying it was to prove him wrong.
Bastard's been a pain in my ass for weeks and his girlfriend kidnapped an agent. I deserve a little release if it helps get Reeves back. He repeated the question that had prompted Buck's stubborn outburst: "Where do I find Crystal?"
When he got no response, Ian sent another hard punch into his lower left side. Buck couldn't suppress the cry of pain that accompanied the cracking of his ribs. He tried to stand, to attempt to defend himself, before remembering that he was still in shackles. Ian took advantage of his poor balance, kicking out Buck's knees to sweep his legs out from under him and using the momentum and his own strength to slam the kid against the edge of the hard steel table.
Despite his mounting frustration and the direness of the situation, Edgerton was careful with just how much force he applied. "You can't let anger or violence get the better of you. You have to be completely detached and realize that there are limits to what even the most effective methods of persuasion can achieve." He couldn't take this too much further without risking serious consequences. Besides, the bastard wouldn't be able to talk much with a punctured lung.
"I'm only gonna ask this one more time. Where... is... Crystal?"
Buck labored for breath against the waves of agony shooting up from his injured arm, pinned beneath the weight of the two men against the cold steel of the table. He stiffly turned his head to look into the colder steel of the agent's eyes. "I don't know," he whispered. Ian shifted his weight to apply a little more force, and Buck again cried out in pain. "I don't know! I swear!"
Ian held him there for another thirty seconds before pulling the two of them back and unceremoniously dumping Winters back into the chair. He leaned down over him again, as he had done right before delivering the first blow, in a manner that strongly suggested he keep talking if he didn't want any more.
"We didn't have a plan of where to go. Crys was looking for some guy."
"Billy Rivers," Ian stated impatiently. Get to the part we don't already know, dumbass.
Buck nodded. "She wanted something from him. I don't know what. She said we'd figure out where to go after we got it."
"Did she have any kind of list of hideouts? Places she planned to go when we got too close?"
"No. Whenever you guys showed up, she would just drive to random places until she found a good spot to hide."
"Where was she hiding when you went looking for Rivers?"
Buck stayed quiet as he looked down at the floor, wondering how badly he was about to betray his lover. Up until now, he hadn't actually revealed anything that could be used against her, and he was most likely trying to figure out how great a risk it would be to give them this location. Ian made sure the look on his face told Winters in no uncertain terms that it would be a much greater risk for him to refuse.
"We were crashing at an empty house," he finally answered, his voice thick with resentment.
Ian produced a pad of paper and a pen and tossed them on the table. "Write down the address."
Despite the situation, Ian couldn't help but be a little amused by the look Buck gave him, which said something like, That would be a hell of a lot easier if you hadn't shot me in the arm, you son of a bitch. Ian thought the bastard should just be grateful for that. It really was better than he deserved, and it wouldn't have been his first choice had Hoyle shown up as they had expected.
With his pain starting to fade into memory, Buck was rapidly reverting to his earlier recalcitrance. He glared at Edgerton as he shoved the pad back across the table, smirking arrogantly at the agent's expression as he made out the barely legible address. This didn't escape Ian's notice. He calmly tore the page from the pad, placing it on the small desk near the door, and stepped back over to Buck.
"This is the last place you know of that Hoyle was staying." Winters briefly raised his eyes to Ian's, before turning away and silently nodding his confirmation. The agent closed the distance between them, leaned down, and grabbed the front of his shirt roughly, pulling him part of the way up from his sitting position. "And you don't know where she is now?"
Buck then made his final mistake of the interrogation; he rolled his eyes at the question Ian had fruitlessly asked him so many times before. He was shoved back into the chair and doubled over from a blow to his stomach before he could give his sarcastic answer. Ian didn't wait for him to straighten up again before he pushed the chair back into its original position in front of the table, and he didn't give Winters another glance as he calmly strode out of the conference room.
"Thanks for watching my back."
Ian's eyes stayed stubbornly fixed on the rifle he was meticulously cleaning. "It's my job." He inwardly cringed at the unintended harshness of his reply. As they were preparing for the mission, Ian had quietly pulled her aside and questioned whether it was necessary for her to personally accompany them on the rescue.
He'd realized instantly that he'd made a tactical error in his timing, with that arrogant captain's words still fresh in her mind... along with whatever she'd done to prompt that terrifying coldness in her eyes. Her words had also been cold, rational. And the practiced ease with which she had brushed off his concern had stung in a way that Ian was completely unaccustomed to.
He expected her to leave, having finally reached the point where his rough exterior would drive even her away, despite her tenacity in establishing their strange friendship. He was pleasantly surprised when she stayed standing there, and he noticed his heart rate increase slightly as he felt her eyes on him, observing him caring for the tool of his trade. The Colonel had once joked that it was quite a fascinating experience, watching the legendary Bastard Son of Clint Eastwood and Yoda work.
She waited for him to finish and lay the rifle gently into its case before moving to sit beside him on his bunk, staring at the floor and saying nothing. Her usually sharp, calm eyes had finally lost the harsh coldness he'd seen earlier, and now looked tired and clouded. Which disturbed him even more than the coldness. That was quite a common trait for the war-weary soldiers in Afghanistan, but he would never have expected to see it in her. His still rapidly beating heart ached slightly, and he instinctively felt compelled to reach out for her.
He was relieved that she didn't pull her hand away when his fingers brushed against it; he had often seen her flinch, or worse, when a man tried to touch her. Slowly, gently, he wrapped his hand around hers. Her face belied nothing, and she still hadn't looked at him, but he was relieved to feel her thumb lightly caressing his knuckles in acknowledgement of his gesture.
"I heard from one of the medics that all the Rangers are expected to be fine," Ian said softly, after another moment of silence.
"Yeah. It's always nice to know that it's worth it." She didn't have to specify what "it" was. Everyone who worked in SpecOps knew damn well that they couldn't always play by the book. "We got some good intel too. The Colonel had me working on it as soon as we got back. Which was probably good, considering some of the places my mind has been today."
"Where was it when that bastard snuck up on you with a knife?" Ian asked before he could stop himself. He'd been lucky to catch the movement while scanning the area with his scope; if he hadn't been watching her at that moment, neither of them would have reacted in time.
Her eyes finally met his, and he could read an apology in them. Apology for what? Scaring the shit out of me? She snorted softly and raised her right eyebrow, which reminded him a bit too much of himself. He usually favored his left eyebrow, but thankfully she had a thick scar over that eye which prevented her from mimicking his gestures too exactly.
"Not where it should have been obviously." She looked down at their joined hands. "Have you ever had to torture someone, Ian?"
The question was spoken smoothly, without a hint of discomfort or judgment. "Not yet. I've stood watch while another guy did though. He was scary as hell... It's one thing to see someone beat the crap out of a guy because he's pissed off, but he was like a robot."
"Beating the crap out of someone isn't really torture. It's not a great means of obtaining information unless you do it right. You can't let anger or violence get the better of you. You have to be completely detached and realize that there are limits to what even the most effective methods of persuasion can achieve. And that it can do as much damage to you as it does to the subject."
"I'm not sure I'd ever want to be in that situation. No offense, but it seems like it would make me a pretty cold-hearted bastard." Ian paused, and considered his previous words. "Of course, most people would say I already am."
To his surprise, that actually got her to laugh. "Most people obviously don't know you well enough then."
He laughed softly with her. "Well, most people don't have crazy mind reading voodoo." She gave him an incredulous look, and he realized that was the first time he'd ever used that phrase out loud.
"Voodoo?" He felt his heart warm when she smiled. "I like that. It's very... mysterious. Although I can't say I'm particularly proud of it when I have to use it the way I did this morning."
"No," Ian said sardonically. "Only when you use it on me." He turned his body to face her and gently pulled their hands toward him so that they were resting in his lap instead of hers. "Don't take this the wrong way, but if it bothers you so much that it prevents you from keeping your head on straight in the field, maybe you shouldn't..."
"It's not something I do often. The Colonel had a problem a few months ago with getting a prisoner to open up, so he asked me to use my 'voodoo' on him. Once in awhile, they'll ask me to do it again."
"How do you even respond to that?"
"You just do it, Ian. Do whatever it takes to get what you need. It's something that needs to be done, so it's something you learn to live with. Like removing a man's brain from his head from a thousand yards away."
"Fair enough," Ian whispered. Now he could understand the coldness he'd seen in her eyes earlier, and suddenly realized why it had terrified him so much. He'd seen that look a few times before... in the mirror after some of the under-the-table operations he'd been involved in over the years. His thoughts were disrupted by a sense of disappointment as she finally pulled her hand free from his, only to be replaced by a surge of pleasure when she laid it on his thigh.
She looked into his eyes again, and he saw that they were almost entirely back to their usual unnaturally calm state. "You know you scared the hell out of me when you shot that guy, right? That was the first time I've actually seen you kill someone."
"Does that bother you?"
"Of course not. It's your job."