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. "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,' 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. He tugs the shirt over his head, letting it drop carelessly to the floor.
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.
"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.
The opportunity to kiss her throat is irresistible, and he leans forward, the inked bird soaring up to meet his mouth. She shudders as he works his way down to the delicate curve of her collarbone, heart racing against the bare skin of his chest. She runs her hands up to his shoulders tentatively, panting, linking her fingers behind his neck, pulling him closer.
Kurt's lips meet hers again, gently, then increasing in intensity. She feels her body respond, as it always does when he is near… waking up, coming to life, wanting more, buzzing with the electricity generated between them. His hands graze the skin under her tank top, near her waist, leaving a trail of goosebumps as she presses herself against him.
"Jesus, Jane," Kurt mutters thickly. "We should probably…uh..." he seems to lose his train of thought when, emboldened, she stands on tiptoe to lightly bite his neck. His pulse is skyrocketing, and instinct takes over. He roughly backs her up against the wall leading to the hallway, his hips pushing into her, leaving no doubt of his desire.
"I want this, " Jane whispers breathlessly, hair wild, pulling away, palms framing his face. He's been so careful with her, so slow...and though she appreciates his respect for her state of mind, she is tired of waiting. "I want you. You nearly died…I just…I need to know that you're alive."
He can't possibly say no. Can't imagine saying anything but yes. Gripping her ass, he pulls her up to his waist with a grunt, and she wraps her legs around him, pulling her arms tightly around his neck. He walks to his bedroom, kicking the door shut, where they collapse on his bed, laughing.
He kisses her breathless, but pulls back soberly. "Are you sure? Jane. I don't want to do anything you're not comfortable with—"
She shakes her head at him, repressing a grin that says, clearly, "You idiot."
"I think my body will know what to do, even though I don't really remember. It hasn't let me down yet, " Jane considers, as if reassuring him.
"Only one way to be sure," he replies solemnly, the corner of his mouth quirking up.
I guess that means you'd be my first, Kurt," she teases. Her hands, skillfully examining his half-clothed body as he leans over her, propped up on his arms, indicate the opposite…she knows what she's doing. And he is powerless before her. His heart crashes within his chest, under the spell of his fierce devotion and desire. Jane smirks, "Now, about all those clothes that are in the way…"
Sitting up, Jane helpfully unbuttons his pants, starts to tug them down. They're kicked away into a corner, instantly forgotten. She gives the same treatment to his boxer briefs, tossing them unceremoniously aside. Biting her lip, leaning back, her eyes roam appreciatively down his body, the vee-shape of his broad shoulders and chest tapering to his waist. He's solidly built, as she could work out from his clothed appearance, and, judging by the larger scars standing out against the chest hair, participant of a fight, or several. The gunshot wound will soon add to the collection…a complement to her tattoos, stories of his survival. He watches her watching him, propped on his side. He reaches out to the hem of her tank top, slipping his hand underneath.
Despite him being the injured one, he carefully, gently undresses Jane, ever mindful of her tattoo-driven insecurities. Her eyes follow him, dark with need. "God, you are beautiful, Jane" he murmurs, reverently tracing the lines of ink on her chest, ribs and belly. It's the first time he's ever seen these tattoos in person, and the living, breathing woman in his bed provides a stark contrast to the cold, clinical photos displayed on the walls of headquarters. Her skin is smooth and unblemished, milk-white in the streetlight reflecting through the window. The tattoos don't stand out anymore, marking her as different; they are simply her, Jane, the woman he's been falling for since day one.
Kurt kisses her deeply on the mouth, and then makes his way down her throat, to her breasts, taking each nipple into his mouth until she gasps and sighs, writhing on the pillows. He traces a trail of buzzing electricity down her belly as she intently, breathlessly watches his progress, gently biting the inside of each thigh, beard rasping against the tattoos stenciled there. He then goes to work between her thighs with his mouth, tongue and hands, not stopping until she's arching against him, clutching his hair, moaning his name.
She lifts her head to meet him as he leans over her again, kissing him, tasting herself. Her hands are insistent, examining the hard muscles of his back, chest, and belly, gently grazing the gauze on his wound. Jane's eyes burn into his, like copper in flame, and he is drawn inescapably toward her, pulled down, skin to skin. They both gasp as he enters her; she bucks her hips and grasps his lower back to pull him in closer, tighter, wrapping her long legs around him.
Ever conscious of his bandaged injury, they move together slowly, with infinite care; whispering, laughing, and gasping with pleasure; their bodies moving as one in a rhythm entirely their own. After some time (minutes? hours? he is only conscious of her, the thrill of her response to him, and the building pleasure) he finally allows himself to release, and she joins him, their names on each other's lips like a prayer.
She runs her hands down his freckled shoulders and back, pressing her lips into the hollow of his collarbone as he collapses against her, slick with sweat, breathing hard.
"Jesus Christ, woman," he mumbles against her neck. "You wanted to see if I was alive? I think I need to go back into the hospital to recover again."
She laughs, cradling his body against hers, in awe; incredulous that their bodies fit could fit so perfectly, make love so comfortably, and make her, for once, feel at ease in her own skin. He had looked at her like she was worthy of worship instead of distant curiosity, as a woman to be desired and pleased instead of studied like a freak show.
His arms tighten around her convulsively as his breathing slows; supremely satisfied, he drifts off to sleep. She absently rubs his back and hair as she watches his chest rise and fall, slipping away to clean up when he begins to snore lightly. She returns to his bed silently, and is gratified that, even as he drowses, he still reaches out to pull her body against his. She wriggles against him until they lie like spoons in a cupboard, his arm draped over her, radiating heat to keep her warm.
Jane has never felt so safe, or so cherished. Sleep claims her swiftly, and for the first time in a long time, there are no nightmares…only dreams.
Love and thanks to Delaney for the prompt and cheerleading, this incredible fandom, and the irreplaceable Blindspotters crew…you ladies (and lad) are the best, and help me maintain sanity during the hiatus. (And who am I to deny you naked!Kurt and Jeller smut?!)