Escape
jezyk
Disclaimer: Not mine
Spoilers: Anything through Matsya Nyaya

AN: There's a *small* bending of reality here, but don't think most people will notice/care. Don't want to ruin anything, so see the end of part two for the explanation.

Part One

How the hell she'd gotten in this position was beyond her. All she knew was that one moment she'd been sitting in her car, grinning at the trouble-seeking, trouble-making, gorgeous man beside her, even though she'd kind of wanted to slap him at the time. He had that way with her, making her smile despite herself, and he knew it. It was always evident in his playful eyes, in the way they'd light up when he knew she was giving in, then the sexy smirk that he'd offer her when he knew he'd won.

Yeah, the man was a terrible distraction, but hell, she'd had worse acquaintances in her life. John's heart was in the right place and she had to give him credit for the fact that he was actually trying not to kill people since she'd asked him to stop. He didn't give a shit how many laws he broke, even in front of her, but she understood his reasons, and so long as he wasn't killing people left and right, well, the rest was excusable.

She didn't mind being distracted by him usually. She didn't mind him trying to flirt his way out of whatever she was mad at him for on any given day. She'd grown to depend on him, on his constant vigilance, on his inexplicable desire to protect her.

The problem was that apparently he was equally distracted by her smiles, something she would have loved to have the luxury of contemplating.

Unfortunately, she didn't have that luxury. Not with the way she'd gone from staring at John with a grin on her face as she thought about how god damned handsome the man was to staring at John with a gag shoved in her mouth as she wondered how badly injured he was. She was suspended from her bound hands from some kind of hook, leaving her just barely able to touch the floor with the tips of her shoes, making her tightly tied wrists support her weight. John was a few feet in front of her in pretty much the same position, except that he was unconscious, likely a by-product of whatever had caused the blood streaming down his face. She had no idea who had grabbed them, but that whoever it was had gotten the better of John scared her.

It was a long time before he moved, his head flopping from the left to the right as he groaned. She didn't rue the feeling as his consciousness came back to him. She'd had the same miserable sensations, taking in her surroundings an hour or so earlier. She'd already determined that the place was littered with weapons that they could use if only they could get to them and she fervently hoped John could see an opening she'd missed. She hadn't been injured, not that she could tell, besides the god-awful pounding in her head. The blood had continued to flow from his temple, following a path down his cheek, soaking into his crisp white shirt, dripping onto the floor. She hated the sight of it, hated the idea that he was hurting. She could only hope he knew who had grabbed them and how to get out of this mess.

His head finally raised, his eyes squinting against the low light, revealing the concussion he didn't even realize he had. Despite the pain, he managed to survey the scene, carefully recording as much as he could so he plot an escape.

His eyes lingered on Carter, catching the fear and concern reflected on her face. He was sure she was mad too, undoubtedly pissed off at whatever he'd done to land him in his current position. He'd deal with that later. He looked over her carefully, searching for any hidden injuries, seeing nothing nearly as obvious as the blood that had pooled at his feet. He was glad that she wasn't injured; it was a small ray of hope in an awful situation.

He met her eyes, trying to reassure her that they'd get out of this, hoping to feel that sense of comfort he always felt when he looked at her. He saw it then, just for a moment before the worry crept back in, her utter trust. She was more concerned about him than herself because she had no doubt that he would take care of her, that he would protect her, that she was safe as long as he was alive.

If he hadn't had a gag tied around his mouth, he would have smiled like an idiot. He was that happy. It had been a bumpy road to earning her trust, but he had it now. He could die a happy man.

Once he rescued her, of course.

The happiness of seeing him awake and aware only lasted a few seconds. She watched him looking around and, hopefully, figuring out some way to escape. She watched him examining her, searching for injuries that were mercifully not there. And then he'd met her eyes.

The man was bound and gagged and beaten and probably going to be killed and he was just staring at her with the most stupidly contented look on his face that she'd ever seen in her life. That was all it took for the infernal desire to slap him to return. And she probably would have done it too, had she been able to move her arms.

As always he read her mind, and rather than the shamed way anyone else would have ducked their head at that moment, John winked at her.

Fucking son of a bitch. The man insisted on straddling the line between confidence and arrogance at the worst possible time.

But then, with a strength that his lanky arms belied, he pulled himself up, grabbing onto the chain that supported the hook, lifting, then freeing, his bound hands.

So maybe he was back on the confidence side of that line, considering that he was about to save them both, in which case his wink wasn't as irritating as it was flirtatious. Squeezing her eyes closed for a moment, she swore to herself that she was absolutely not turned on by the man flirting with her while they were both tied up.

When she opened them again, John wasn't in front of her as she'd expected. She'd figured freeing her would be next on his agenda. Instead she craned her neck to see him pawing through the crates with his wrists still bound, his gag still tied though lowered around his neck, finding a handgun amid the assault rifles and shoving it into his waistband under his shirt. He smiled when he spied something in the bottom of one of the crates, something small he tucked into his pocket. He took the opportunity to survey the room from the other direction and checked out the one small, filthy window before he picked up a bottle of water and returned to Carter.

He lowered the gag from her mouth. "Are you ok, Jos?"

She went to nod, but the small movement caused the blinding pain to shoot through her like she'd bashed her head with a hammer. "Except for the headache, yeah, I'm fine. Get me down."

He winced. "Me too. Flashbang, that's how they took us." Ignoring her request to be freed, he held the water bottle to her lips. "Here, drink some of this."

She contemplated kicking him in the balls, but decided against it only because it might keep him from helping her eventually. "Untie me."

"If they come in here and find you untied, they're going to know something's up." He lifted the bottle to her lips again. "Here, hurry."

It was only sheer desperation that let her take a small sip. But she pulled back, his words rolling through her pain-addled head. "And they're not going to notice you untied?" Her heart skipped a beat as she feared he might have had something more to do with the whole situation or maybe he planned to bargain his way free while leaving her behind. No, that was ridiculous, she knew. He'd never do that.

"I'm not untied." He indicated his hands. "Do you want more?" He seemed truly concerned with her desire for water. "Might not get any for a while."

She held his eyes, knowing he wouldn't hurt her, yet feeling horrible fear creeping back into her. The man liked to dance on the edge, he enjoyed playing dangerous games that risked his life. "Please, John, get me down." She waited for a response that didn't come, tears pricking her eyes when it sunk in that he had no intention of freeing her from the restraints. "John, please!"

He shook his head as he downed the rest of the water and chucked the bottle across the room. "If we go out there right now, they'll just kill us. We have to wait for a better opportunity."

Her chin trembled, unable to process the words he was saying, unable to understand anything besides the fact that he wasn't helping her. "John," she croaked through her tears, "why are you doing this?"

His hands lifted, cupping her cheeks. "I won't leave you, I promise." His eyes darted toward something behind her, toward the sound of footsteps. He didn't meet her eyes as he maneuvered the gag back in place over her mouth before doing the same with his own.

She watched in disbelief as he jumped up, grabbed the hook, and reattached his wrists.

Not helping her was unbelievably cruel, but suspending himself from the wrists that had to be as raw and painful as her own was just insane. The man needed therapy. And the next time she didn't have a gag in her mouth she was going to tell him as much.

There was nothing in the world he hated as much as disappointing Carter, except making her cry, both of which he'd had to do. Again. But in order for an escape to be successful, it had to be carefully planned and executed. Even with all the weapons their captors had stupidly left in the room, Reese wasn't about to take on an unknown number of men with an unknown skill level in an unknown location. He needed more data before he could decide on a plan of action and if he'd had another second, he would have explained that to Carter. Unfortunately, some of the bastards had chosen then to return and he'd had to ignore her pleas.

Having her beg him for something he had to deny her, hell, it hurt more than his head did. He'd have to apologize to her profusely as soon as they got out of there. And they would, with the help of the weapons he'd purloined during his brief escape.

He just had to wait to make sure no one would be able to call for reinforcements when he made a run for it. And he needed to know who the fuckers were who'd grabbed them, so he could get even.

It was abundantly clear a moment later when several men walked through the door. Reese recognized three of them as Elias' men. He wasn't surprised that the man continued to operate from behind bars, but he was amazed at the continued loyalty of the men. Usually when the boss went inside, especially one as unwilling to share his secrets with his second-in-command, the organization would be bogged down with in-fighting and power struggles and ultimately failed to maintain the sort of presence Elias had brought it. Clearly Elias had everyone scared so shitless they continued to perform their duties without complaint.

Reese shook his head as he thought to himself what an effective, inspiring leader Elias might have been in a legitimate position, in the military or even politics. He could have done a hell of a lot of good had he been so inclined if he had that kind of sway over people.

Of course, his minions probably continued to behave in his absence because Elias would have no qualms with killing them, their families, and their friends if they thought independently, so perhaps public service wouldn't really have worked out so well.

She cursed him in her mind as the time passed. She had nothing better to do than stew over the ways she'd get even with the bastard for leaving her in such a vulnerable position. If the men holding them got bored, the worst Reese had to fear was being beaten up. She, on the other hand, was well aware that she'd caught the eye of one of the bastards and could only fear when he'd grow tired of leering at her from across the room. Rather than contemplating that possible future, she glared at Reese and imagined how she could get even. That damn phone he'd given her was going in the trash. And she wasn't going to accept any calls from him. And she could turn both he and Finch into the authorities. And she could shoot him right between his pretty little eyes. That might get her point across. The son of a bitch could have at least given her a fighting chance, let her loose to grab one of those assault rifles he was so fond of, let her try her luck with getting free, or getting killed in the attempt.

He barely noticed her glare, if he noticed it at all. His attention was on the group of men, listening in to their conversations, maybe trying to figure some way out of the situation without killing them. For once, she wished he wouldn't bother. She wouldn't care if he killed them all, not as long as he did it before they laid a hand on her. Somehow, the thought made her not so angry at him, the idea that he was trying to do as she said when she knew his first instinct had to be to shoot everyone. She wished she could alert him to her change of heart.

But when she realized he was looking at her again, finally meeting her eyes after forever of ignoring her, he was trying to tell her something. He kept blinking at her, more like slowly closing his eyes and opening them again. She wondered if he was trying to communicate in Morse code, but that didn't seem to be it. She shook her head to tell him she didn't get his meaning, watching the frustration on his face.

What the hell did he want her to do? And just what the hell did he think she could do in her current position? He shook his head back at her, turning his eyes back to the men in the far corner of the room. Whatever the message had been, she'd missed it and it didn't look like he was going to try again.

A moment later, she realized what he'd been trying to tell her. He was making his move.