"Try this," he extends a wooden spoon to me across the counter, his hand out to catch any that might drop.
"Mmm, that tastes like…I don't know, but it's good," I say as I greedily lick the excess sauce still lingering on my lips.
"Yeah?" He raises an eyebrow. "You're not just saying that?"
I cock my head to the side, an exhausted smile gracing my face. "Anything tastes better than the same takeout every single night."
"Fair enough," he laughs, going back to cooking.
I watch him from my place on the stool, taking in the way his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, accentuating the muscles in his forearms as he grips the spoon, the blue towel slung over his shoulder, the relaxed, barely there smile. He's comfortable in the kitchen, exuding an easiness that alludes me whenever I even attempt to boil water. Not that I have all that much time to cook anyway. But then again, neither does he.
The question of how he learned such a skill is on the tip of my tongue, but I bite it back, not wanting to bring up the past, and subsequently squelch the relaxed manner we have going on right now.
It seems we'd made a silent agreement quite a while ago, that if I didn't ask questions about the past, he wouldn't bring it up. In the beginning, this felt like a welcome relief. All too often I would catch him staring at me like I was five years old again, like I was here to tend to all the gaping wounds I'd left in my wake all those years ago. But upon confronting him with this knowledge, he'd backed off, started seeing me for…me. Jane. And that had worked for us.
But now I was becoming continually agitated with the questions constantly tumbling into the forefront of my mind - innocent questions, prompted only by my growing affection for this man - my only motive being that I wanted to know more about him. And with that, came inquiries about what happened not just during those 25 years I was…absent, but the five before that I simply couldn't remember.
"You can turn on some music, if you want," he suggests, glancing up and nodding towards the iPod speaker, interrupting another anxiety-ridden argument with myself.
I sluggishly get up from the stool, meandering over to where he'd pointed. It had been a long day, and my body was definitely showing signs of exhaustion.
Pushing play, I immediately jump back, completely taken by surprise.
My ears are assaulted by the very loud, very peppy sound of a woman's voice welcoming me to new york, blaring through the tiny speakers.
"Shit," I mumble, not sure how to turn the volume down.
Before I know it, he swiftly comes up behind me, placing his hand on the small of my back, causing me to straighten, as he leans over, adjusting the sound.
"There," he smiles and heads back into the kitchen.
I trail quickly on his heels, a wicked gleam having replaced the fatigue I'd been feeling.
"So, uhh, do you always listen to that or just when you invite a woman over?" I rib him over his interesting choice in music.
"Oh God," he snorts with an eye roll. And for a moment, I think I've done something wrong by asking. But he exasperatedly continues. "That would be the handy work of Sarah. She's been playing that non-stop for the past year."
He raises an eyebrow at me, like I should know him better than that, and then softly laughs to himself, his whole face lighting up, causing my own smile to reach my eyes.
God, he's handsome as hell.
"It's not really…my umm, first choice of music. But it's fine. She just plays it all the time - even drags Sawyer along, having him shake it off with her or something like that," he embarrassedly says as he resumes stirring the sauce.
I saddle up right next to him, leaning my hip onto the counter, completely invading his space. My arms are folded and a sly grin is waiting on my lips.
"And what about you Kurt?" I whisper, leaning forward, my breath feathering against the light stubble on his jawline. "Do you also, what was it…shake it off?"
He stiffens, once against stilling his hand, before ever so slowly angling is head towards my own, his irises engulfing his sea blue eyes into that of a storm.
And I quickly fall prey to my own game, finding myself sucked into his gaze. His hand coming to rest against my cheek - his thumb sweeping across my cheekbone, the heel of his palm sinking into the crease of my smile that just seems to get wider the longer we continue to
"How you get the girl," he murmurs, breaking our silence.
My face furrows, etching confusion into every feature - not sure if he's referring to us being so close or answering my earlier question about playing this for all the women he brings over.
His hands moves to the back of my neck as to not lose me, obviously sensing my discomfort and uncertainty. He brings our faces close again, his stubble brushing against my cheek, before whispering, "It's the name of a song on the album, Janie."
"Oh," I say, blushing furiously both by my ignorance, but also from the sheer proximity of him in relation to myself. And while we've been going out for a weeks now, the nervous butterflies have yet to leave me. In fact, they seem to flutter more frequently.
"Dinner's ready," he smirks against me, laying a kiss against my temple. "Why don't you go sit down and I'll bring it out."
I make my way out of the kitchen with a silly grin, swaying back and forth as if I were drunk, fully intoxicated by him.
Passing by the iPod, I figure I should educate myself on this apparently popular singer, so the next time, Kurt can't pull one over on me. I hit the button, the screen lighting up, still softly playing the pop-y melody.
I smile down at the illuminated picture, as a barrage of images hit me over the head. The wisps of the past come gliding into my consciousness, unveiling their shrouded secrets to me. And these aren't just black and white images colliding into grey recollection. No, they're in screaming color, confronting me head on.
"You coming, Jane?" He asks he passes by me, unaware of the emotional turmoil overtaking all my senses.
xxxxx
Dinner is full of tense silence, radiating off of us both, as a push around the food he'd made, staring blankly at the table in a haze. I know he's confused and frustrated, as he spends most of the night making quick glances at me, chewing slowly, opening his mouth to speak and then quickly closing it, too afraid to broach the subject. He'd tried to make a joke about me lying about the sauce being good at one point, but it had been met on deaf ears, and a disappointed scowl on his part. He knows something's wrong, but he can't figure out what it is, he's left in the dark. Much like I am most of the time.
A better person, a stronger person, would've just told him what happened, it wouldn't be the first time that I'd been hit with a memory in is presence. Hell, my very first memory took place during the most precarious moment with him, one in which Kurt's own life had been in danger, and I was the only one who could help, could save him.
And it wasn't too long ago that I'd been invited over to my very first meal with him and his family. One that I'd fucked up then, too, as I was once again caught in between reality and a dream, blurry edges mixing together to reveal to me an image of a man taking me away. I'd rushed out of the apartment, overwhelmed with the information I'd been given. He'd chased after me. Of course he had. Trying to comfort me in any way he knew how.
That had been my first and last memory as a child.
Until now.
He's hovering over me before I know it, reaching to grab my still full plate. I didn't even realize he'd moved, let alone made his way to me. I drop the fork with a clang, startling myself - looking up with an apologetic glance, it's the first acknowledgment of him I've given since the meal started.
Setting down the plate again, he places his hand on my shoulder, gently squeezing, letting me know he was there, before coming to squat down next to me - changing the angle of contact, giving me the power above. The power to initiate whatever it was that was bothering me. And there was something bothering me. But just like all the times before, I didn't want upset the balance of rules we'd seem to have set for ourselves.
To explain what had had happened, I'd need to understand it myself, and I didn't. Not yet, at least.
I stare down at him with pleading eyes, begging him to just let me be util I figure things out.
"Jane," he cuts through the silence. "I'm here. I'm right here," he pleads, grabbing my hand.
"Bird," I say, barely above a whisper.
"I'm not sure what…" His eyebrows knit together in confusion.
"You used to call me Bird," I interject. My eyes refusing to meet his own, but I can hear the sharp intake of breath, his hand squeezing just a little tighter around mine.
"How did you know that?" He tentatively asks, not wanting to push me too far, but the blind desperation reeks on his breath, the need to know what I remembered evident.
I take a deep breath, steeling my nerves against a faulty memory that could very well slip through my fingers. The fear of maybe this not being a memory at all, but a conjuring of my subconscious trying to trick me into seeing something that I want to see, filling in the blank spaces.
I flash my green eyes at him, briefly, before resuming their place resting comfortably at my lap, my free hand running up and down the seam of my jeans, nervously avoiding his eager expression.
"T.S. 1989, polaroid…bird," I spit out in one breath, blurring the words together into gibberish. Not that it would make much sense if I had said it any slower.
I'm confusing him further, I know. But I don't know how to describe what blitzed before me.
Me. A polaroid camera. Running around taking photos of anything, everything. And the name, "Bird" ringing out from the background, a little boy, chasing me. Blue. So much blue.
I let the memory wash over me again, my shaky little hand holding the pen saying, "I can do it," in the most sure-fired way, as I scribble on the bottom of the picture.
I smile, knowing that the more it replays in my head, the more real it must be.
This time, I lift my head, meeting his eyes. The same blue eyes that watched over me as a kid. The same caring expression, watching me, wanting nothing more than to make sure I was okay. And the simultaneous feelings of seeing them for the first time with the childhood sentiment I now have, that he's always had towards me, and yet the overwhelming intensity of having always known my place as the deep everest green mixing with the endless blue sky, if only when I look up.
I reach my hand out, smoothing the worried creases across his face I'd caused, that I was always seeming to cause, and he places a gentle kiss to the heel of my palm.
"You have the same eyes," I murmur.
He smiles against my palm.
"So do you."
xxxx
The sun peeks through the windows of his room, casting odd shaped shadows to dance across my face. I try to burrow deeper into his sheets, attempting to tuck myself further into the warmth of his chest, when I find myself alone in his bed. A pillow having replaced his form.
I groggily make my way out of bed, hair disheveled, morning breath prevalent. The tank top I have on, riding high, giving more than a tease of my now growling stomach, having skipped dinner the night before.
A small smile plays on my lips, as I come across Kurt, leaning over a brown box in the living room, ass up in the air, swaying back and forth as he digs for whatever he's looking for.
I lean against the doorframe, my fingers finding their way to my mouth, a nervous habit I'd apparently picked up, admiring the view.
"So is this what 'shaking it off' is?" I ask with a teasing lilt to my voice.
He startles, turning his head around, with a light blush and a goofy smile.
"Not quite," he teases back, sitting down with something concealed in his hand. "Come here, I found something for you."
I stumble over the contents he'd already removed from the box, finding nowhere to sit comfortably, until he pulls me down to where I'm resting completely on his lap.
He wraps his arms around my midsection, and I can't help but feel safe. Warm. Content. Even more so when his chapped lips come to kiss my bare shoulder.
"You ready?" he asks like a child trying to contain the urge to rip into every gift sitting under the tree on Christmas morning.
I giggle, like a schoolchild, myself. Leaning back against him, nodding my head.
He holds out his hand in front of me, and in it, is a yellowed polaroid, crinkled on the edges.
I gasp, turning as far as I can in his lap to see his face.
"You found it? It really exists?"
"Of course it exists," he shakes with mirth against me.
And it does. There in his hand is the proof that it wasn't just my mind playing tricks on me.
It was real.
It is real.
A picture of a young blond haired boy with the bluest eyes…err, eye - seeing as half of his face is completely cut out of frame, and there next to him is the dark haired girl with emerald eyes smiling so big her face is completely scrunched up, arms wrapped around him as far as they'd allow, while his hand rests protectively over her shoulder.
On the bottom of the picture in barely legible handwriting, it reads:
T.S. K.W. 1989
xxxxx
I was first introduced to Taylor Swift's music through my very own Taylor Shaw. Not even joking. That's her name. Been a fan of TSwift ever since. I've literally had this album on repeat since it came out last year, and as I was listening to it the other week, I noticed that the album cover said T.S. 1989, and given that Blindspot is on my mind way too often lately, I immediately went to Taylor Shaw, and how they had the same initials. And that 1989 would likely be the last year her and Kurt were together before she was taken. It was just pure coincidence that I'd nicknamed Jane as "Bird" in a fic I'd written before. So it all came together, and this is what came out of it.
Thanks for reading, and please review!