Bloodsport
"If I fall short, if I break rank, it's a bloodsport, but I understand. I am all yours, I am unmanned, I'm on all fours, willingly damned." - Raleigh Ritchie
Kurt sometimes thinks she was sent to him to teach him patience.
If that were the case, he wants to inform the powers-that-be that their plan is severely flawed. Or, at the very least that they have a terrible sense of humor, because it's the kind of joke that's going to send him to an early grave. He's certain that before he actually gets a chance to learn any patience at all, he'll either have a coronary, be arrested for murder, or end up institutionalized. Whichever happens first will depend on how much sleep he's had, or hasn't, and just how much Jane thinks she can get away with during a case. Which, typically, is always a lot.
Kurt's learned to adjust of course. Some days are better than others.
Today is one of those days, the kind that isn't going so well.
It's for a multitude of reasons he can only attempt to pinpoint. One being that a simple conversation with a witness from there current case had somehow turned into a foot chase. Secondly, it's only been a week since Mayfair lifted Jane's medical suspension and cleared her to go back into the field with the team. Chasing large, armed, dangerous strangers through the streets of New York is the last thing Kurt wants her doing. So much for making her ease back into things, not that anything about Jane has ever been easy…
He tries not to think about it, the all too cruel irony; she got shot a month ago to the very day. Her collapsed lung almost suffocated her before the paramedics could get her to the hospital. Kurt pushes those thoughts and memories into the furthest reaches of his mind possible, buries them, praying that's where they'll stay.
If only it were that simple.
Their current situation is distraction enough. Kurt Weller has never been cut out for high speed pursuits. Sure, he's in good shape, but his back and his knees are shitty from years of abuse, a combination of his days as a linebacker in college coupled with too many on-the-job brawls with America's most wanted. So now, flying down the streets of Manhattan, a stride behind Jane, who is a stride behind their suspect, he cusses under his breath. Give him something to hit and tackle, because this sprinting bullshit is for the birds. Why did they always have to run?
The man they're chasing is Troy Williams. He's a former bouncer for a night club that's been laundering money to suspected terrorist sympathizers, the kind that have ties to prominent United States corporate interests that could lay open a scandal for the ages. All thanks to another one of Jane's tattoos, of course. Williams shoulders through the throngs of people on the crowded city sidewalks, clearing a path in his wake, before disappearing into a side alley up ahead.
"Kurt!" Jane calls out mid-sprint, people diving out of their way.
"I see him," Kurt yells back, "Zapata, give us some eyes!"
"Headed up the fire escape!" Tash is watching back at headquarters, manning the satellite feed, and her voice crackles in his ear over coms.
"I'm going to try and head him off," he calls to Jane.
"Got it," she barks back, and in a seamless transition they split up. She disappears around the corner and into the alley in pursuit of the fleeing man, and Kurt continues to fly down the sidewalk at mach five.
He hauls ass for another block, finds the next alley down that runs the opposite side of the same building, and another set of fire escape stairs. He's climbing them, taking them two and three steps at a time, almost to the top, when Jane's and Tash's voices sound off over his earpiece, along with the echo of Jane's labored breathing. He immediately wonders if it's because of the distance they've just ran, or something else.
"He should be right there." Tash is frustrated, her help limited to what she can see on the computer screen in front of her, and she hate's it.
"Where?"
"He just passed that electrical unit, you should be right on top of him!"
"Tasha I don't see—"
Kurt hears it first.
Gunshots usually sound all the same, but this one is different.
The crack of the explosion echoes in his ears as he hauls himself up the last set of stairs and onto the rooftop. The sunlight hits him straight in the face from the west, and all he can see as his eyes start to focus are the two silhouettes struggling ahead of him. There's a discarded gun on the ground.
It paralyzes him for a fraction of a second, and he can feel his heart temporarily fail in his chest, followed by blinding panic as he realizes the two circling figures are Williams and Jane.
Jane's not as sharp as she normally is, it's been weeks since either of them have sparred together in the gym since she was shot, and it shows. She's safetying up when she would usually risk getting closer, to try and turn the tables against the stronger opponent, but she's also not stupid. She's well aware she's at a disadvantage. She still has stitches in her chest for Christ's sake from the last surgery, from the bullet that almost killed her. Fuck, Weller—you let her run right into this! Kurt immediately draws his pistol, tries to find an in, but he quickly realizes that he's in an impossible situation. The suspect is between him and her, there's no clear shot that doesn't put her in the line of fire. He's stuck.
Goddammit.
Even though she's faster than her opponent, more agile, in close quarters it's not helping her win this fight. She hesitates a fraction of a second too long, and Williams overpowers her with brute force. He unsteadies her when he rushes her, sweeps her legs out from underneath her with a low kick when she doesn't evade him fast enough. She's on her back and he's on top of her before Kurt can even think to react.
Everything else happens in a matter of seconds, but it's like he's watching it in excruciating slow motion.
Jane cries out when William's digs a knee into her chest, making her gasp for air. He has one hand wrapped around her throat and the other one is reaching for the gun that's now just an arms length away from them both. Then it's in his hand. Then Jane is staring down the muzzle.
In a moment of desperation she does the opposite of what anyone would do—tries to get closer. The split second that Williams uses to shift his weight to level the gun at her face becomes her last resort. Fighting against his dead weight, she lifts her torso up off the ground just enough to close the gap between them, just enough so that when she darts out a quick, calculated hand, she doesn't miss. All of her strength, what's left of it, is focused solely on making sure she grabs him by the wrist (the one attached to the hand holding the gun), and that she twists it at just the right angle when she jerks backwards, just as he tightens his hold around her neck.
And this is the part of Jane that Kurt Weller both loves and hates in equal measure. The fact that when the odds are stacked against her, she won't give up the fight, even if winning risks paying the ultimate price.
Another gunshot erupts in the air, but this time the crack of the gun is accompanied by a crack of broken bones and Williams' screams as he drops the weapon. Somewhere a stray bullet ricochets off of cement and metal and disappears.
Kurt had started rushing them the moment she hit the ground, and now he closes the gap in a heartbeat, kicking the gun as he passes it so that it goes skidding across the roof well out of reach. He's moving so fast he's even got Jane surprised when he appears over the shoulder of the guy who's still got her in a choke hold. In one quick movement he forcibly drives the butt of his pistol into the back of the Williams' skull, hard enough to feel it give and crack under the pressure, to draw blood. Kurt doesn't even check to see what happens when he crumples to the ground in a lifeless heap beside them, he doesn't care.
The only thing that matters is Jane.
"Jesus." Kurt's gets on the ground, down on his knees. His hands are on her shoulders, but she's rolled over onto her side, still seeing stars, still gasping and coughing for air and clutching at her chest. He immediately looks for gunshot wounds, for blood, and his panic doubles when he pulls her arms away long enough to spot the crimson red stain at the front of her shirt.
"Kurt, talk to me." Zapata's back in his ear, an echo of desperation. "Backups coming alright? Is she ok?" Even the fearless Tasha is rattled, Kurt can hear it in her voice, and he imagines she's been pacing the satellite feed room like a rabid wolf. Close calls did that to her; she's lost more people than he has.
"I'm fine—" Jane gulps for air, eyes watering, "—it's just the stitches."
"Fine my ass," Kurt mutters, and he sucks in a breath, lets go of her only to holster his gun and turn back to cuff the incapacitated man. "Tasha, we need an ambulance," he cinches the cuffs extra tight around the man's already swollen wrist, and he contemplates breaking the other one too.
"I'm fine." Jane repeats, rolling back onto her back, eyes closed, trying to regain her bearings and catch her breath. "It's busted stitches, Kurt. I'll live."
"It's less for you," Kurt turns back to her, his words a little softer, nodding back over his shoulder, "and more for him."
She manages a laugh at that, but it turns into a cough again, and Kurt's brow furrows, his face falling as he reaches down for her. He'd have the medics check her too, just to be safe, no matter what kind of threats she'd try to make it get out of it.
Jane takes his hands, lets him pull her up into a sitting position, but before he realizes what she's doing she's wrapped her arms around his neck. She pulls him closer, buries her face in his shoulder, her hands in his hair. Kurt instinctively draws her to him, breathes out an audible sigh of relief he hadn't realized he'd been holding. She's warm and real against his chest, her pulse as he rests his hand at the bird on her neck so strong, and in that moment he all but breaks and falls apart completely. He clutches her, as close as he can get her without hurting her any worse than she already is, presses his lips to the top of her head, breathes her in. They stay like that, unmoving and intertwined, until the sound of sirens picks up in the distance.
"I'm sorry," she says quietly as she draws back, stricken when she looks up at him, as if it's somehow her fault. It kills him.
"There's nothing to be sorry for," Kurt takes her face in his hands, staring at her intently before placing a chaste kiss to her forehead. "It's over."
But it's never over, not really, and later on while he watches Jane sit in the back of the ambulance, watches the paramedic catalogue all the new bruises and injuries and things that will result in more scars across the already scarring canvas of tattoos she wears, he wonders if it ever really will be.
"You ok? Reade wanted me to check on you."
Tash appears at the door of his office, leaning against the frame. Kurt glances up from the case file he's been looking at, trying to trace Williams steps back to whoever his boss is, following the never ending money trail that landed them here in the first place. Thanks to Kurt, Williams can't answer that question for himself, since he's currently sitting in a coma in the ICU of New York Presbyterian with a fractured skull.
He's been beating himself up about it for the better part of the evening since they got back to headquarters. That's why Tash knew he'd be in here, the one place he almost never spends any time in these days, when everyone else has already called it a night and gone home—including Jane. It's the place he goes when he needs to take a step back, to get his head set right on his shoulders. This case has been one cluster fuck after the other, and with the way things went today, with Jane almost… No, he's not going to think about it. Not right now.
He just needs some separation. Some space. Or at least that's what he tells himself.
Kurt shuts the file, pushing it to the side, bracing one arm against the surface of the desk while he runs his free hand over his face. Surely he looks as bad as he feels, he thinks, because at this point the dark circles under his eyes have become a permanent fixture of his appearance. He doesn't get much sleep these days.
"Kurt…" Tash steps inside, shuts the door behind her and leans back against it. The way she says his name is a threat; talk or I'll make you. It isn't very often she feels compelled to seek him out, she knows he's usually got a handle on his shit, even on the bad days. But Tash isn't stupid, and they've worked together for too many years for her not to see him drowning, even if he's too stubborn to call for help.
"No," Kurt admits reluctantly, like it's an interrogation shakedown instead simple question, "No, not really."
Tash nods her head in acknowledgement, bites her lip as she considers him from a distance. They both know he rarely admits to having clouded judgment in these kinds of scenarios, the type of situations and circumstances where he has to be honest with himself that he's got blinders on. The fact that he's admitting it at all, when he'd usually deny it, is a big enough red flag for Tash. For her it means that Kurt's backed himself into a corner, the kind he doesn't know how to get out of. What's worse is that both he and Tash are acutely aware that it has nothing to do with the case, nothing to do with his ability to do his job, but everything to do with what happened on the rooftop today.
It has everything to do with Jane.
"She shouldn't have been in the field today," Kurt mutters, "I knew she wasn't ready, and I still let Mayfair clear her."
"Jane's a big girl, Kurt," Tash crosses the threshold, crosses her arms as she stops and stands in front of him at his desk, "she would've done it whether you wanted her to or not, and you know it. You can't blame yourself for that."
"I couldn't keep her safe, Tasha." Kurt looks down at his hands, clenches them into fists, replays the scene on the rooftop in his head for the thousandth time, "it scares me, because I don't think she sees it. She doesn't stop, she doesn't think…" Kurt sucks in a breath, releases it slowly before meeting Tash's sad brown eyes again, "she's going to get herself killed."
"Jesus Kurt—" Tash looks at him, horrified he's saying these kinds of things out loud, "—no, she's not." She leans down, grabs his hand, tries to funnel some sort of sense or reason into the dark hole he's falling down. She levels him with the look she reserves especially for calling him out on his shit, and it makes him cringe. He has to resist the urge to look away, to drop his eyes like a child being scolded. "You need to cut the man on fire routine and fucking talk to her, ok? If she hears it from you, if you stop waiting for her to read your mind, maybe she'll start thinking about it."
Kurt would've told anyone else to go fuck themselves, but Special Agent Natasha Zapata is an incredible individual with a knack for telling him exactly what he needs to hear, exactly when he needs to hear it. After seven years as partners—as friends, really good friends—and enough baggage between them to supply several third world countries, that's one thing Kurt Weller knows will never change.
Kurt chuckles, a small sound, almost inaudible, but it's the first time he's felt like laughing all day. When he peers up at her with his sheepish, boyish half-grin, she can only manage to shake her head in exasperation. She still has a scowl on her face, but her eyes are laughing too.
"You're insufferable, y'know that?" She gestures with her hand, standing back up, "It's a wonder she puts up with you at all. She's a saint."
"Hey!" Kurt feigns injury, pretends to be hurt by her accusations, but he knows she's right.
Tash rolls her eyes, turns away from him and moves to the door. When her hand reaches the doorknob to let herself out, she pauses and glances back over her shoulder.
"Just do it, ok, Weller?" She's insistent now, but her earlier wrath is replaced with something more sobering and serious. It's less of a request and more of a non-negotiable demand than anything, more of a warning, and her eyes are narrowed and staring at him pointedly. "Jane's good for you. The last four months have been the most I've seen you smile in years. I don't want to see you screw another good thing up because you couldn't use your damn words."
They both know who she's talking about without having to say it. Tash will be damned if she has to watch him ruin another one of her friends, Kurt can see it on her face, the underlying threats of bodily harm and murder if he were to make the same mistake again. He thinks about Allie, about all the reasons and excuses he gave himself for why it didn't work. He thinks about how much he hurt her.
Were he and Jane doomed to fall to the same destructive history that preceded her and all his other relationships? Or would this be worse, more painful? Because every time he looks at Jane, Taylor Shaw is there too—two impossibly different lives tied together by the same thread.
He doesn't want to know the answer.
"I promise, Tasha."
He's not sure it's a promise he'll be able to keep.
AN: Thanks for all the reviews on everything you guys, it's been really fun seeing you all so damn excited about Blindspot, and that makes me happy. So, this is set somewhere a couple months after 1.10, maybe in an AU of sorts where the Oscar question is resolved, or maybe not, I haven't entirely decided yet. BUT WHATEVER. Kurt and Jane are together, if it wasn't obvious. This is part one in a series of several chapters, I think. Rated T for later scenes, with the probability of it being changed to M at a later point. Anyone remember me talking about Jane and Kurt and a bed? This is the brain child of that and other discussions on Tumblr, so thanks for that guys.
I'll shutup now, because I need sleep.
Special shoutout to CJ and all you other crazies who have been encouraging me with all these ideas. And by encouraging I mean feeding my addiction and making me forget to do important things, like being a responsible adult.