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The Thinnest Line

Summary:

Reacher is minding his own business when a heap of trouble lands in his lap.

Of course, he can't leave well enough alone.

Notes:

GUYZ. I can't help myself. I am an absolute sucker for bad boys/drifters/men on-the-enormous-side-of-normal. And I realize that AO3 is not exactly the ideal platform for the M/F genre, but *shrug*.

I wrote this ages ago, but since there's a Reacher Season 2 out, I figured - what the hell.

It is what is is. It's also not done. I could easily see this through to a novel-length espionage-thriller-style story. Will I? Eh. Probably not.

Chapter Text

He was idling at a stoplight in his rented car - a utilitarian Toyota Corolla that was a little small for his enormous frame - when there was a blur of movement to his right. He glanced over and saw a slight girl in a light blue sparkly evening gown sitting in his passenger seat. She had slid in through the open window. Her eyes met his - huge, aquamarine, teary - and she said, “Just drive.”

Reacher hesitated; the light was still red. He could sense a commotion at the entrance of the ritzy hotel to the right, and the girl was hunkered down in the seat beside him to avoid being seen from outside the car. She put out one pale, slender hand and squeezed his, which was on the center console between them. 

“Please,” she whispered urgently, and his eyes fixed on the livid red marks around her wrist: clearly ligature marks to his trained eyes. Reacher’s jaw clenched, and he stamped hard on the gas pedal just as the light turned, weaving in and out of lanes to get ahead of competing traffic as quickly as possible. 

“Where are we going?” he asked her.

“Just out of the city as fast as possible,” she answered, sinking down into the floorboards in front of the passenger seat. She was small enough that she fit in the cramped space entirely, the iridescent fabric swirled around her like she was submerged in a sparkly pool. She was watching his face with a mixture of gratitude and suspicion as she took in his wide shoulders and toned chest. Had she just gone from the frying pan into the fire?

“Who are you?” she asked, and Reacher almost laughed.

“Who am I?” he responded. “You’re the one who just randomly jumped into my car. Who are you?”

“I’m Sophia,” she said softly. “Sophia Mercer.”

Reacher glanced down at her. She looked very young and very scared.

“What’s going on, Sophia?” he asked gently. “You seem like you’re in some kind of trouble.”

“Just answer me first,” she insisted, her voice tremulous despite her determination.

“Jack Reacher,” he replied.

“But who are you, Jack Reacher?” A moment of silence. “Can I trust you?”

Her question hit him hard in the chest, and he felt momentarily breathless, then instantly protective.

“You can trust me, Sophia. I’m one of the good guys.” Most of the time, he thought to himself, but didn’t say it aloud. 

She nodded, but her eyes traveled up and down his body with a haunted look, as if she was imagining what he could do to her. It made Reacher uncomfortable. Normally his size was an advantage, but for perhaps the first time, he tried to shrink down and look less imposing even though he knew it was a losing battle. He filled the silence with commentary, like he was reporting to a commanding officer, while staring straight ahead.

“We’re leaving the city now. Heading west.”

Sophia crept up out of the floorboards and grabbed the passenger seatback, peeking past the headrest at the road behind them. She stared intently at the cars for a few minutes, till Reacher figured out what she was doing.

“There’s no one tailing us,” he reassured her, and her glance cut over to his quickly. 

“How do you know?” she asked.

“I used to be in the military police. I have an eye for those sorts of things.” 

Sophia relaxed slightly and turned around to sit properly in the seat for the first time.

“You should buckle up,” he told her. 

She nodded, reaching for the shoulder strap to her right, and as the buckle clicked into place, she covered her face with her hands and started shaking so hard he could feel the whole front seat vibrating. Her tears were silent.

“Jesus,” Reacher muttered, unsure what to do. He started slowing the car, approaching a highway exit.

“Don’t stop!” Sophia said frantically, and Reacher nodded, accelerating again.

“Where do you want me to go? Can I bring you home?” 

Sophia signed, a shaky, featherlight sound. “I don’t know where that is. I don’t know where I am. What city was that?”

Reacher frowned. “New York. Where are you from?”

“I was in Nebraska,” she said, her eyes trained on the scenery outside the window. Reacher started; Nebraska was over a thousand miles away – at least an 18 hour drive. Not a trip Reacher had planned, but his lifestyle was flexible enough that he could get her there if needed.

“Is that where you’re from?” he probed.

“I’m not really from anywhere,” she said evasively. He felt an instant kinship with this stranger; he, too, wasn’t really from anywhere. 

But recognizing that this line of questioning wasn’t going to yield any substantive answers, Reacher tried a different angle. “Why are you wearing an evening gown? It’s the middle of the day. And it’s cold.”

Sophia looked uncomfortable. She picked at the fine fabric, and instead of answering, she asked, “Do you have anything else I could wear?”

Reacher thought about it for a minute. He traveled light, but he had a flannel overshirt that he’d discarded on the back seat. He was planning on picking up a winter jacket once he got to his destination. He reached one long arm behind him and threw the flannel on her lap. “Just this,” he said apologetically. 

Immediately, Sophia unbuckled her seatbelt and unzipped the gown with surprising speed and dexterity, sliding its slippery length down her body until she sat in just a skimpy pair of underwear and a strapless bra.

“Whoa!” Reacher said, putting his right hand up against the side of his face to block his view, but not before he saw the flat plane of her slender stomach and long, toned, bare legs. Then she was shrugging his shirt on and buttoning it up; fortunately, it was so big on her that it was practically a dress and covered her modestly. She tossed the fine gown into the back seat with an expression on her face that could only be described as disgust. 

“Okay…” Reacher began, looking over at her again now that she was fully clothed. “What was that all about?”

“That’s better. Thank you,” was her only reply. They sat in silence for a few moments.

“So where are we going?” he tried again.

“I don’t know,” she answered. “Where were you planning to go?”

“Well, I was going to drive out to Pennsylvania and spend a few weeks in the woods,” he told her honestly. “A friend has a hunting cabin in the Poconos.” 

Her luminous blue eyes cut over to him. “What are the Poconos?”

Reacher frowned again. “Mountains. Well, as close to mountains as they get in Pennsylvania. How old are you?”

“Twenty-two,” she said simply. 

“You sure about that?” Reacher pushed. “You look younger.”

“Everyone always says that,” she said. “But I’m really twenty-two.”

“Have any ID?” he asked.

She looked over at him sharply again. “What you see is what you get.” She gestured up and down her small frame, scoffing. 

“How the hell did a girl from Nebraska end up in New York City in an evening gown with no ID, no money, and no home?” 

Sophia laughed bitterly. “That’s the million dollar question, I guess.” Then her face grew solemn. She looked at him through her lashes, which were extraordinarily long, he noticed, even though she’d washed them clean of mascara with her earlier tears.

“You seem like a decent person, Jack Reacher, and I’m sorry for gate-crashing your life, but could I stay with you until I figure out what to do?”

Reacher was taken aback by the question, but he knew his answer instantly. “Yes,” he said with gruff certainty.

She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the seat. “Thank you.”

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

“Not really. At least, I don’t think so.”

Reacher knew that feeling well – her body was still so pumped full of adrenaline that she couldn’t tell if she was hungry or not. 

“Ok, well, it’s about a two hour drive. Do you want to get some sleep?”

She considered this for a minute, but shook her head. “I’d rather know where I’m going.”

Reacher could see through that answer, too. She trusted him, but not enough to be totally vulnerable around him. Her wariness seemed practiced. 

“Seems like you’ve had an interesting life for a twenty-two year old,” he observed.

“You have no idea,” Sophia replied, almost sadly. 

“Why don’t you tell me about it,” Reacher prompted. “We have a long drive ahead of us.”

Sophia seemed far more willing to talk about her history than the more recent events that had led to New York, but it was a sad tale. She described being raised by a single mom who had the courage to get herself and her daughter away from an abusive boyfriend but who had descended into substance abuse not long after. A childhood spent between foster homes and stints with her mother, who tried to be loving but was too haunted by her own demons. Sophia related with clinical detachment finding her mom cold and unresponsive after an overdose on the couch of their mobile home when she was fourteen, handling funeral arrangements alone, escaping a foster home where the foster father had started to take an inappropriate interest in her, and living in a group home for young adults until she was old enough to age out of the system and be on her own. 

“I’ve been working in administration at the group home, taking some classes on the side,” she related. “I’ve always liked school. It was something stable, normal. Something I was good at without really trying.” 

Reacher studied her as she talked. She was a no-nonsense mix of strength, raw intelligence, and practicality, and he found himself admiring her and feeling that same sense of inexplicable kinship he’d felt earlier. He said what he was thinking.

“Lots of people would get really messed up by that kind of history,” he observed. 

She looked at him for a second and decided he wasn’t judging her. “Yeah. One of the older kids at the foster home said to me once, ‘All this bullshit? It’s not your fault. Don’t make everybody else's problems yours.’’ And I took that to heart.”

“Good advice,” Reacher agreed. It was similar to his approach to life. He was smart, but he didn’t overthink things, and he didn’t internalize what happened around him. “So whose problem landed you in New York?”

Sophia’s face darkened. “I met a man. I’m cautious, but he took his time, till he won my trust. One night, he took me out to the fanciest restaurant I’d ever been to. I drank more wine than I should have, and he must have put something in my drink. Next thing I knew, I was in the back of a van with a group of other girls.”

“Fucking hell,” Reacher cursed. 

“It was a high-class operation, though,” Sophia said scornfully. “Clearly well-funded. We stopped over somewhere that had been built or modified to temporarily house girls. Dormitory-style beds. Medical facilities. Half of the girls got packed off after the first round of tests. Anyone strung out on drugs or riddled with STDs didn’t pass muster. I don’t know where they took them, but we never saw them again. Just me and one other girl made the last leg of the trip into the city.”

“To meet the high-paying clientele,” Reacher theorized, and Sophia nodded. 

“That dress probably cost more than I make in a year,” she said dismissively. “And I guess they were hoping to make a pretty penny on me, once they did their tests and realized…” She trailed off. 

Reacher glanced at her questioningly and she blushed, looking away. 

“Realized what?” he asked, genuinely confused. 

She didn’t answer directly. “I guess some men will pay a lot to be…” She looked pointedly out the window. “The first.” 

Reacher processed this for a moment, then realized what she was saying without saying it. He turned to look at her in something like astonishment, and as soon as she knew he understood, she changed the subject, leaving Reacher with a lot of unspoken questions. “I recognized some of the faces in that room. None I could name off the top of my head, but definitely the kind of people who have been in the news or on screens somewhere.”

Reacher frowned, growing anxious. “So you could ID them, if you saw them again.”

Sophia knew what he was getting at instantly. “Yes,” she affirmed, and fear crossed her face again. “I guess that means trouble.”

“I think it might,” he said in a measured tone. “We need to make a detour.” He typed an inquiry into the car’s built-in GPS. 

“Town not far from here with an Enterprise. I can return this car and we can get a ride to the nearest bus station. But we have to get you some real clothes and shoes.” He glanced down at the glittery blue, strappy heels she was wearing. 

“Yeah, these don’t go so well with my flannel dress,” she laughed. Reacher was exiting the highway and searching the streets. It was late afternoon, and most of the shops in the small town would be closed soon.

“Better ditch this car first.” He pulled into the parking lot of a small Enterprise outpost and instructed Sophia to sit tight. She watched him through the glass storefront as he explained something to the clerk, handed him a handful of cash and the car keys, and waited as the clerk made a phone call. Then he came back out to the car and grabbed Sophia’s dress out of the back seat. Reacher opened her door and put out a hand.

“Taxi’s on the way. We’ll catch the last bus to the neighboring town and stay overnight. I’ll figure it out from there.”

Sophia took his hand gingerly; his palm was rough and his fingers full of latent strength. When she stood up beside him, the top of her head was at about the level of his collarbones, even with her 3-inch heels. 

“How tall are you?” she gawked, unable to keep the awe out of her voice.

“Six-five,” he answered without dissembling. “How tall are you?”

“Five-two,” she shrugged, feeling suddenly self-conscious and very chilly in the billowy flannel and incongruous sparkly heels. Reacher carried her dress balled up in his fist since Sophia didn’t seem inclined to touch it voluntarily. She took a step closer to him as a breeze lifted the edges of the shirt, and he reached down with his left hand, pinning the flannel to her body with one flat palm on her upper thigh, his arm partially wrapped around her in an attempt to keep her warm without really touching her. After a moment’s hesitation, Sophia looped her right arm loosely around his waist; they stood like that in the failing light waiting for the taxi. Reacher tried not to move much, afraid he might spook her, but her arm around him was steady. She’d decided to trust him, and she wasn’t looking back. The taxi arrived after about five minutes, and Reacher told the driver to take them to the bus station, which was only a short drive away. Reacher paid for two tickets to the neighboring town and gave the names of Tom and Angela Foster for the tickets. When he handed over hers, Sophia raised an eyebrow.

“So we’re married now? Do I look like an Angela?”

Reacher smiled slightly. “Just play along.”

They boarded the bus - not without a few questioning glances at Sophia’s choice of attire by their fellow passengers - and sat down next to each other halfway down the length of the bus. Reacher gave Sophia the window seat, probably because he needed to stretch his long legs out into the aisle to be able to fit comfortably. She grinned at him as he grimaced and shifted in his seat.

“These things aren’t exactly built for giants, are they?” she teased him, and he grunted agreement. Sophia made a show of stretching and wiggling in her seat, and Reacher scowled at her. She relented and looped her arm under his elbow on the armrest, patting his forearm companionably.

“I suppose we shouldn’t act like total strangers, should we?” she whispered to him, and rested her head on his deltoid. “You don’t make a very good pillow, though.” She was silent for a few moments, then she turned to look up at him with her luminous aquamarine eyes. They were a crystalline blue that contrasted strikingly with her long lashes and dark hair, set in a heart-shaped, fine-boned face with preternaturally smooth skin. Reacher understood why she was targeted by what must have been a high-class trafficking ring, and his fists clenched. She was still looking at him as she felt his body tense. 

“Are you okay?” she asked, and he nodded stiffly. She leaned against him and looped her left hand around his bicep, her soft cheek warm on his skin through the fabric of his long-sleeve shirt. “Thank you, Reacher.” Her voice was so quiet, he could barely hear, but he put his heavy hand over the top of hers and held on as the bus pulled out of the brightly lit parking lot and onto the darkened streets.

The ride was about 45 minutes, and as soon as they arrived, Reacher hustled Sophia off the bus and into another taxi that took them to a little motel across town from the bus station. He gave different names this time - Frank and Anna Fields - and the tired-looking clerk didn’t ask for ID. Reacher paid with cash and walked with Sophia down the row of doors facing the parking lot with an old-fashioned key in his hand. Their room was number 12 out of possibly 20 units in the whole complex. It smelled stale, like it hadn’t seen guests in years. There was one king-sized bed. Sophia saw it and didn’t say anything; her earlier light-hearted teasing was replaced by anxiety. Reacher sensed her discomfort and addressed it directly.

“Didn’t want to raise any suspicions by asking for two beds. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

His reassurance calmed her immediately. “No, it’s okay. King size is big enough for both of us with plenty of space,” she said. “I wouldn’t feel right about you sleeping on the floor. You’ve already done so much to help me.”

He nodded. “We’ll get you some clothes tomorrow. Hopefully you’re okay sleeping in that tonight?” He gestured to the shirt she was wearing, then tossed the designer dress onto the threadbare armchair by the chest of drawers the TV sat on.

“Yeah, thanks,” Sophia acceded. “I’m going to take a shower.” She turned toward the only inner door in the small room.

“Sophia,” Reacher said gently, and she looked back at him over her shoulder with a questioning expression. “Is it a good idea to take a shower?” She frowned at him, uncertain what he was asking. He cleared his throat. “I mean, would that erase any necessary evidence?” 

Her eyes grew wide as she understood what he was asking, then she looked down in embarrassment. “It’s okay. I got away before…”

“Right. Well, that’s a relief.” Reacher cut her off so she didn’t have to say it. 

She disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind her. He heard the water switch on. Reacher laid down on his side of the bed - the one closest to the exterior door - and crossed his hands under his head, staring up at the outdated textured ceiling. He was going through the events of the last few hours in his mind, thinking through possible ways to trace their journey and wondering how much Sophia had seen. If this group thought she knew too much or could ID any of their high-profile buyers, she might be in real danger. He was running through a list of potential questions to ask Sophia to assess the possibilities when the water shut off and she emerged clad in a towel, her hair wrapped in a second one and piled on top of her head.

“I don’t think a 5-star hotel could compete,” she said laughingly, and flopped down onto the bed. She looked over at him, and he met her gaze. “I haven’t had much luck in my life, but I think your car being in the right place at the right time might have been the luckiest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

He smiled then, a genuine smile. “I’ll keep you safe, Sophia. We’ll figure this out.”

She reached out across the wide expanse of bed between them and grabbed his hand. “I can’t thank you enough.” Then, softly, almost experimentally, she added, “Reacher.” Then she stood and disappeared into the bathroom again, smelling sweet and clean and innocent. Reacher was surprised by how powerfully protective of her he already felt. “I think I’m lucky, too,” he said under his breath, then shook his head at his own foolishness.