Silent and Cold
Jane hesitantly stepped away from the vehicle, adjusting her scarf, bundled haphazardly around her neck, pulling her hat down against the bitter wind. The snow and ice were patchy on the dull brown of the cemetery grounds, the dirty gray slush blending seamlessly into the bleak sky.
Kurt walked around the front of the SUV, joining her on the sidewalk. His hands were stuffed into the pockets of his substantial Carhartt coat, chin tucked against the turned-up collar. She'd talked him into pulling a knit beanie on as well, despite his arguments that he was nigh impervious to the bone-deep chill. Blue eyes peered down at her inquisitively, eyebrows raised, a bright contrast to the monotonous sky.
Taking in a deep breath, she nodded at him. "I'm ready," she rasped, coughed, and cleared her throat. "I'm ready." Returning her nod after scrutinizing her to be sure, he turned, and she followed him into the cemetery. Her stomach twisted into knots. What would she feel, when they arrived? Would another memory strike her like lightning? Would a heavy dread descend? Or, almost worse, would she feel nothing at all, no connection whatsoever?
Her boots crunched on the path, covered in a mix of ice and salt. She let her eyes wander over the various family crypts and statues of angels, lichen-stained black and pitted from exposure. Her thoughts darted back to the last time she'd found herself in a cemetery; sprinting, dodging bullets, and desperately clutching a deadly canister of radioactive death. This time, though, there was silence, peppered only by the occasional creak of a tree swaying in the frigid air.
Jane followed Kurt closely, feeling nervous and exposed, out of place. Though the wrought iron gates had been swung open for the day, they were the only ones there on the hallowed grounds, alone in the vast silence of the rolling hills and winter-stripped trees, bare save the stray ice-strewn evergreen. She can see her breath puffing through the scarf, the air searing her lungs with every polar inhalation.
Just when she'd started to wonder if they'd ever arrive, cold seeping into her coat, he pivots from the paved path, onto the dead grass. He turns back to her, silently offering his hand, which she gratefully accepts. Despite the insulated pockets of her coat, her hands had become stiff and cold. The warmth of his hand, enveloping hers, seems to drive the chill from her entire body, moving gradually throughout as if she were lowering herself into a steaming bath. He tucks their clasped hands into his pocket, to her secret pleasure; her unease seems to dissipate as she clings tightly to him.
Kurt's voice is gentle. "She's right here, Jane."
She can feel his eyes on her as her breath catches, taking in the gravestone before them.
Emily Malvina Shaw
1960-1997
Beloved daughter and mother
It was simple and rectangular, unadorned. The marble was pure white, still pristine despite the years. It stood alone, nearly a foot and a half tall, unconnected to any other family plots.
"Malvina?" is the only thing that comes to her mind. Kurt laughs softly.
"I, uh, looked it up. It's traditionally Scottish, as is Shaw. I didn't know her grandparents, but I was told that they were immigrants to Pennsylvania," he explains, the detail betraying the casualness of his reply. Pleased, she feels her cheeks heat, and she looks away, smiling into her scarf.
The elephant in the room, lying between them, unmentioned, is the possibility that Jane's not even Taylor Shaw at all; yet still, she appreciates the time he's devoted over the years to this, the obsession over Taylor Shaw's disappearance, trying to bring closure and absolution to not only her family, but his own. And closure to himself, most of all. She stands silently, considering.
"No other family here?" Jane dares to ask, at last.
"No, Jane, I'm sorry. I don't know where Emily's parents or grandparents are buried yet. There seemed to have been some kind of rift in the family...there was hardly any contact between them and Emily, after…" trailing off, he mumbles something almost to himself, looking away, kicking at a chunk of ice melded to the grass.
She nudges him, wanting to roll her eyes. "What? Come on. After what? You can tell me."
His eyes edge toward hers; he sighs. "After you were born, Jane. Taylor. There seems to have been some family drama, but I don't know what. There's…no one alive anymore to tell me the truth."
Her gaze falls back upon the lonely marble headstone as she sighs heavily, breath coalescing and swirling around them. She pulls a slim, bare hand out of her other pocket, slowly reaching down to rest her fingers upon the smooth, glacial marble.
"I'm…I'm sorry,' she whispers, unabashed. "I wish we had answers for you. I…wish we had closure." But, there are still more questions than answers. Still more mysteries than open books. Still plenty of work to be done before the book can be closed, and before, Jane feels, the dead can truly rest. She pulls her hand back, now numb, and moves to stuff it back in her pocket. Reluctantly, she pulls her other hand free of Kurt's, turning toward him, clearing her throat. "I think I'm ready." Her voice is barely above a whisper.
He captures her numbed hand before it meets her other pocket, bringing it up to his warm lips, breathing life back in. Both of his hands swallow her own, slender and cold, warming with his touch. His eyes bore into hers, needing to be certain. "Are you sure, Jane?" he matches her soft tone, voice low and rumbling.
"I'm sure," she replies, squeezing his hand as he clasps hers to warm it, tucking it in the other pocket. They walk silently back to his SUV, lost in their own thoughts, the quiet broken only by the clattering of the trees and the crackling of their strides on the salted, icy path.
He's remotely started the vehicle, and it's started to struggle valiantly with an output of warmth by the time he opens the door for her, helping her in. Tires grumbling against the snow and slush, he then pulls away from the cemetery, heading back to his childhood home.
They'd come down to Pennsylvania almost on a lark, on the anniversary of Taylor's mother's death. Kurt had mentioned it, haltingly, when he'd caught her in a private moment after work, as she prepared to head "home" for the evening, in the locker room.
"I'll go," she'd blurted, unthinkingly, staring him down until he'd acquiesced. They hadn't quite resolved their issues after his injury and her earlier lies…or, selective disclosure, as Dr. Borden coined it…concerning her torture and experience at the CIA black site. That hesitation, however, was overridden by the urge to know more about her theoretical family, were she indeed Taylor Shaw.
Kurt had grudgingly agreed to take her, more so as a manner of honor, feeling the weight of his responsibility to the unsolved case from his childhood. He'd driven them down into the dark, encircling hills of Pennsylvania, ending up in a tiny town past its coal-mining heyday, starting to show signs of neglect and disrepair. He'd pulled up to the car park of a small, tidy 50s-style house, which seemed to be preserved, untouched, since the 1980s, on the inside.
"My parents' house, back in the day," he'd explained shortly. He directed her to the guestroom, giving her a brief tour of the compact house. Jane could hardly pry her eyes away from the family photos on display, young Kurt grinning in so many; his hair longer and dense, accompanied by a blonder, freely smiling Sarah.
They hadn't stayed up late that night, Kurt making an excuse about being exhausted from Friday's workday, and the drive. Jane, not yet tired, had wandered the house, studying every photo on the wall and shelf, trying to build a fuller picture of Kurt Weller in her heart and mind.
She'd woken up to the irresistible scent of his cooking in the kitchen, as he made biscuits and gravy from scratch. Notes of fresh coffee had woven through; shuffling into the kitchen, she'd poured herself a cup, black, as she'd leaned against the counter, hair mussed from sleep, in a hoodie and oversized pajama pants.
He'd greeted her noncommittally, grunting as he collected the biscuits and gravy into serving bowls, pulling dishes and silverware from various cupboards, methodically stacking them on the countertop. Wanting to help, setting aside her cup of coffee, she'd reached to receive the dishes from his hands, but instead found herself pulled abruptly into his arms, pressed against the counter, as his mouth crushed hers.
He'd lifted her up onto the counter, strategically clear of the food, and she opened her legs to pull him in closer almost instinctually, eyes startlingly level with his. She ran her hands up his back, lingering on the firm muscle and shape. He pressed closer to taste her, as if outside his conscious control, unshaven cheeks and chin grazing hers as he explored her thoroughly.
She gasped as he pressed a trail of kisses down her throat, but joined him in laughter, breaking apart, as they both startled when the bread exploded from the toaster with a PING!
Catching their breath, cheeks flushed, they'd eaten their hearty breakfast in comfortable conversation, Jane asking Kurt about his happy memories in this house. They cleared the table together, Jane painfully aware of his presence, and every brush of skin; but she nor he pursued their connection further, now feeling the emotional weight of their upcoming visit to the cemetery.
Their cemetery pilgrimage now complete, he drives back to his childhood home like a man on a mission, singularly focused on making his way safely through the snow and ice. Jane slouches in the passenger seat, thankful for the meager warmth now pouring through the vents, eyeing both Kurt and the tiny town as he drives. She tamps her urges and emotions down, sensing that Kurt is more rattled than she as they enter the house, stomping the ice and salt off their boots onto the entry mat.
They hang their coats and outerwear, kicking off their boots, and she follows him to the master bedroom, making her move as he turns back toward her. She wordlessly embraces him, absorbing his warmth into her still-chilled body. He stiffens for a millisecond, but then turns, melting into her arms, pulling her down onto the bed, sighing with relief and satisfaction as he draws her closer. "Fuck," he mumbles wholeheartedly, encompassing the entirety of their late morning/early afternoon.
She soothes him, smoothing his shirt, running her hand through his hair, and down the tense muscles of his back. She has nothing more to offer him than her presence and warmth, in his parents' home, the very air heavy with the past. "You'll be ok. I'm here. I'm here," she murmurs. He sighs gratefully, pulling her close; and she figures that, for the moment, it's enough.
Written per the tumblr BSHiatusFics prompt of "Gravestone". Much love and thanks to takethisnight-wrapitaroundme, countryole, and charmingnotdarling for this brilliant idea..we're only a couple weeks away!
Love and squeezes to the Blindspotters squad and fandom...you guys are truly the best, and most welcoming. 3