Hospitals and Heartaches
"Hey Weller, man…you look like shit, " Reade commented, laughing, as Kurt Weller responded with a withering glance. "Better than a few days ago, though. How are you feeling?"
"Like shit," Weller responded with a wry grin. "Though now it feels like it was only a pickup that hit me, rather than a semi truck." The two men shook their heads, marveling at the fact that Kurt was alive at all. The bullet had entered on his outer right side, breaking a rib, nicking his lung, and somehow exiting cleanly instead of shredding his guts. A miracle that it wasn't the bullet, but the blood loss, that had nearly killed him. A miracle that Jane, their tattooed mystery woman, had been there quickly enough to staunch the blood flow and save his life.
"You are one lucky bastard," Reade added. "Here you are, out of the hospital, and recovering at home already."
"'Lucky' is debatable, but yeah. Good to get out of that place. Sounds like the team is doing fine in the meantime; Mayfair, Zapata, and Patterson came by the other day. …Haven't seen Jane, though."
Reade rolled his eyes at the careful nonchalance affected by Weller at the last statement. "Man, you have no idea, do you? Jane wouldn't leave your side for two and a half days straight. She slept on that horrible hospital furniture, somehow. Mayfair had to threaten her to go home and clean up and rest, and she only did once we promised to call her immediately if you worsened." He thought back to Jane, curled up in the uncomfortable chair for hours, clinging to Kurt's free hand as she held vigil over him. Her angular, expressive face had been drawn and pale, eyes bloodshot.
"It should've been me," she'd whispered to Reade, anguished. "I should've-"
"Shh, stop it, Jane," he'd snapped, squeezing her shoulder to lighten his tone. "You cannot let yourself go down that road. You saved his life. He wouldn't even be alive if it wasn't for you. Sometimes the best of plans go awry…and in our line of work, we sometimes pay the ultimate price for dealing with guns and bullets on a daily basis. But this time, it didn't end that way. Because of YOU. Saving his LIFE."
He'd squeezed her shoulder again to emphasize the last bit, and he saw her eyes focus, attention coming back to him as she blinked back her tears. "I guess," she'd muttered halfheartedly. She wasn't entirely convinced, but he'd have to leave that to Mayfair, en route. And Weller, when he was finally conscious, and released.
A look of intensity crossed Weller's face as he considered Reade's statement, followed by a grimace as his body protested his sitting up straight at the kitchen table. Weller's abused ribs protested further as he stood in response to a tentative, light knock on the door.
Reade could guess who it might be. He shook hands with Weller, slapping his shoulder on the uninjured side, and rose to leave. "Looks like you have another visitor. I need to get back to the office, close up for the day. Take care, man. We'll see you back soon."
Nodding at Jane as he opened Weller's door and headed toward the elevator, it was all Reade could do to resist winking at her. "He's all yours, " he said.
Hesitantly, Jane entered Weller's apartment. "Kurt?" she called softly, expecting him to still be following doctor's orders, on bed rest.
"Jane." He surprised her by approaching her, on his feet, as if he hadn't just left the hospital. As if he hadn't just nearly died due to her negligence.
"How are you feeling?" she asked softly, avoiding his azure gaze, looking down. She could feel his eyes on her, and she wrung her hands, unsure. He reached for her twisting, nervous hands, his grip firm and reassuring.
"Hey, Jane. Look at me," he gently coaxed. "Look at me. I'm just fine. I'm alive and well. They even let me out a few days early. It was merely a flesh wound." Jane cracked a small smile at that point, pleased at understanding the reference. Patterson had nearly held her hostage the past week or so, keeping an eye on Jane after Mayfair had kicked her out of the hospital, and her regimen of distraction had included her favorite cult movies and TV shows. Jane, a newcomer to Patterson's favorites by default, had been the perfect, if captive, audience.
She took a deep, shaky breath. "I am so sorry, Kurt. I should've covered you better. It was my fault-"
"NO, Jane," he cut in, voice rough. "No. I don't want to hear it. I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. If we want to talk fault, it's on me. My mission, my fault. Besides, I'm just fine. Breathing, and alive-"
"But my tattoos!" she protested vehemently, pulling to free her hands from his grip, to no avail. "They're on MY body, and led us to that warehouse, and once again, got someone hurt-"
"Shhh, I'm fine. I'm ok. Hazard of the job," he soothed, slowly, carefully gathering her in his arms, folding her against his abused body. She did not protest, and instead let out a shuddering breath, squeezing wayward tears into the rough cotton of his henley shirt. He rubbed her back, taut with the built-up tension of the past few days, and was pleased to feel her slowly, grudgingly, relax into his body. "I hear that you camped out in the hospital, like I wasn't going to make it,' he teased gently. "You should know it takes more than that to knock me dead."
"Not funny," she mumbled into his chest. "You should've seen the blood…I was pretty sure there was none left in your body at that point. It was awful." She tilts her head up, green eyes peering up at him, brows furrowed. "Don't you EVER do that to me again!"
He dazzled her with one of his rare smiles, tired eyes creased in the corners, and suddenly the mood seemed to change; she couldn't quite seem to draw breath, suddenly very aware of the heat of his body, pressed the length of hers. She was pretty sure he could feel her pulse quicken, and her heart attempt to exit her ribs. He considered her, gaze piercing, from his superior height.
She thought back to the first time she'd kissed him, and the expression on his face as she strutted off into the night, supremely satisfied. He'd returned the favor in spectacular fashion on New Year's Eve, setting her senses on fire with the heat in his kiss…only to be interrupted by the hooting, cheering set of Reade, Zapata, and Patterson (Zapata especially pleased to have won her wager against Reade). Laughing, blushing, she and Kurt had joined their friends for a toast to the New Year, but never were able to steal another moment alone that night. Not even a day later, when she'd been looking forward to an actual date with the man, he'd been shot.
She'd better take advantage of what few opportunities arose to be with him alone, Jane decided, a wicked gleam in her eye as she rose on tiptoe to touch her lips to the corner of his jaw, the rough stubble of his beard rasping against her mouth as she whispered, soft as a sigh, "I've missed you."
His response was instantaneous, instinctual, cradling the back of her head, fingers tangled in her hair as he captured her mouth with his, ravenous for her kiss, and the taste of her mouth. She clung to him, the only solid ground in the hurricane that was her emotions and blood pulsing with his. He turned her head aside to kiss her where he wanted, the roughness of his mouth and beard trailing down her throat to the curve of neck and shoulder. She couldn't suppress the shiver of pleasure that trailed down her spine.
Her hands roamed, skimming the hard planes of his back and shoulders, feeling the bandages under the cloth of his shirt. She needed to see; wanted evidence of the healing, had to ensure he was whole. Breathing hard after his sensual ministrations, Jane tugged at his shirt, gently lifting with his reluctant assistance (as he pulled away from a focused examination of the column of her throat), attentive to the sensitivities of his injuries.
Catching his breath, he regarded her, eyes inscrutable, as she examined him, silent, one hand pressed against her mouth, reddened from the coarseness of his beard. She grazed the gauze bandaging on his ribs with careful fingertips, tracing the patterns of the fading bruises, pausing at the medical tape. He dips his chin in consent, eyes never leaving her, and she soberly lifts the corner of the gauze, inspecting the healing, stitched up wound. It is smaller than she anticipated; she bitterly wonders how it was that so much blood could gush forth from an injury so small.
"Does it hurt?" she asks softly, meticulously smoothing the gauze and tape back onto his chest, regretfully pulling the shirt back down.
"Not at all, right now," he grins lopsidedly, gazing down at her like she'd hung the damn moon. Her cheeks heat, an answering smile on her lips, and she looks away. He pulls her again into the warmth of his embrace, and she buries her head into his chest, heartache soothed, grateful he is whole.
A/N: I do hope you enjoyed this sweet fluffiness. It's part of a larger post-S01E10 arc I'm slowly working on in the meantime. Certain scenes just seem to write themselves first. :) Please forgive the medical inaccuracies…the googles were not entirely forthcoming (and probably put me on some secret government list somewhere).
Thank you countryole for the glorious "Hung the damn moon" phrase. (Probably one of the most accurate ways to describe how Kurt looks at Jane in the show.)
Playlist: "Turning Into Stone" – Phantogram (wait for 3:37…love the atmospherics); "I'd Love to Change the World [Matstubs Remix]" – Jetta (turn up the bass).