One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Bar Fight
"You should join me," a text message buzzed into view on the display of Jane's phone. She'd just been escorted back to her safe house, and had been surveying the room, feeling restless, unable to relax after the day's mission.
The team had found itself on a foot chase through Inwood Hill Park, with multiple suspects on the run. Zapata and Reade took down one, Reade's bone-crunching body slam at top speed enough to make a linebacker proud.
Kurt had shot the other at a distance as the suspect held a knife to Jane's throat, a mirror image of Jane's shot all those months ago at the top of the Statue of Liberty. She'd never doubted for a moment that Kurt could make the shot; trusted him and his aim implicitly. Her hand flew to her throat as bullet cracked the air near her ear, the suspect falling away from her. Somehow managing to keep her wits about her, she scrambled to her feet, kicking the knife away.
Kurt sprinted forward to radio in the suspect, assess the injury, and restrain him, eyes leaping to Jane as he knelt. His heart jumped into his throat as he watched her pull a bloody hand away from her neck. "Oh," she said, surprised. She immediately sat, shocked, holding her hand to the wound.
"Put pressure on it, Jane, " he growled, noting Zapata and Reade's approach with a cuffed suspect. Other agents were now heading their direction at a run, having just arrived on the scene.
"We lost the other, Kurt," Reade reported tersely, as the now-cuffed suspect was escorted away; medics hovered over the wounded suspect and Jane. The stream of cursing leveled at his disappearance by Kurt was truly impressive in its' variety, fluency, and detail. Reade and Zapata glanced at each other, eyebrows raised. Something had Kurt a bit rattled, and Tasha was willing to bet it had to do with the tattooed woman now getting patched up nearby.
Jane had rejoined them with only a small square of gauze taped to her neck. "It was only a little cut…bled worse than it looked," she commented reassuringly to the team. Kurt had only grunted in reply, murder in his eyes. Behind his back, Zapata waggled her eyebrows at Reade, who rolled his eyes in return.
After debriefing Mayfair and receiving Patterson's confirmation that the missing suspect's description had been released to other agencies and the public, Kurt had departed headquarters quickly, looking grim. "He takes it very personally if a member of his team is hurt, no matter how severe," Tasha had reassured Jane in the locker room as she'd watched him storm out, brows knit with worry. Zapata had her theories (and several bets with Reade) regarding just how much more Kurt thought of Jane than as a mere team member, but she bit her tongue. Those two needed to work it out for themselves. And soon, preferably, so she and Edgar could stop dealing with the constant heart-eyes and meaningful looks, and romantic tension thick enough to cut with a knife.
Jane had departed for her safe house with a sigh, wishing she could've reassured Kurt, shown him just how shallow the cut was, that he had nothing to fear. When the text message came in, she was both relieved and bemused to see that it was from him.
He hardly ever texted, preferring to call if he needed to speak with her, and Jane wondered what brought about the occasion. "Where are you?" she responded, and his reply, several minutes later, was that of a hole-in-the-wall pub a few blocks from his apartment. So that explained the text…he must be a few drinks in.
After swiping on some makeup (Zapata had once shown her how to do a "smoky eye"; Jane had to admit it did fantastic things for her green eyes), she threw on a Patterson-and-Zapata approved outfit, completed with her leather jacket, she snuck out of her apartment, making her way through the chill night to Kurt's favorite watering hole.
Twenty minutes later, Jane strolled into the dim bar, the thudding cacophony of rock music playing in the background. She spotted him hunched at the bar, muscular shoulders pulling the fabric of his Henley shirt taut. She joined him, standing next his seat. "Hey," she greeted him, smiling self-consciously, fingers reaching up to touch her bandage.
He quickly swallowed what appeared to be whisky, sliding off the bar seat, gesturing for her to sit. "Jane. How's your neck?" he queried gravely as she settled in the seat, leaning in closely so that she could hear; she repressed a shiver. His arm rested across the back of the stool protectively.
"Just a scratch. I'll live," she reassured him. "It's not your fault. I should've—"
"KURT! Who's your lady?" a voice boomed from across the bartop. "What are you drinking, lass?" The bartender reached across the bar to shake her hand, adjusting the glasses perched on his ruddy face. Sharp blue eyes peered out under bushy grey brows; a matching beard grew haphazardly down to his chest. "Call me Morty. Kurt didn't mention that he was bringing his Valentine to my place!" He chortled. "Hell of a place to spend Valentine's Day!"
"I'm Jane," she responded shyly. "I'll have bourbon, straight. Your choice."
His bellowing laughter was heard clearly over the music. "Ah! Well, she explains the whisky, doesn't she? Ha! Good choice, sweetheart." Still laughing to himself, he moved to pour her drink.
"Old friends?" she asked Kurt innocently, noticing that the tips of his ears were unusually pink.
"I've known Morty a while," Kurt grumbled, focusing on the swirling caramel color of the whisky.
"The best for you, Jane!" Morty exclaimed heartily as he returned, pressing a glass down in front of her. She took a slow sip, feeling the burn down her chest, saluting him as she smiled appreciatively from across the top of the glass.
She and Kurt sipped their drinks in companionable silence for a while, each lost in their own thoughts. "Thanks for inviting me," Jane finally ventured. "I…know that you must have been worried, after this afternoon."
Kurt sighed heavily, focusing on the gauze patch affixed to her neck. "Worried would be an understatement," he confessed, voice low. She moved closer, wanting to catch every word, inhaling his scent.
"It's not your fault," she repeated. "I should have been more alert. He shouldn't have surprised me." His eyes met hers, startling her all over again with the depth and clarity of azure.
"No. That's my job. My mission," he countered roughly. He looked away, suddenly distracted, pulling out his phone. "My sister. I'll be right back, Jane, " he looked at her apologetically.
Kurt stepped away for a few minutes, leaving his drink; Jane absentmindedly munched on the pretzels that filled bowls scattered around the bartops. Her attention was then drawn by a hand on her leg, one that inexplicably did not feel like Kurt.
"Hey beautiful," the man slurred, swaying against her. "Can I buy you a drink?"
"No thank you," Jane responded primly, eyes darting around the bar, looking for Kurt, or even Morty. She didn't want to make a scene, but would, if she had to. The man persisted.
"Come on. I'm a nice guy, I'll get you something gooood," he leered suggestively, hand inching upward. Jane flung his hand away.
"I said no," she repeated, voice firmer and louder. The man seemed to be undeterred, even though his friends tugged at his coat to pull him away.
"You heard the lady," a voice suddenly growled from behind her. Kurt had reappeared, his arm curling possessively, protectively around her waist from behind. "She's not interested." Relieved, Jane leaned into his half-embrace.
"Fuck off!" the other man spat, pushing at Kurt. Jane could feel the tension in his body, arm still around her, as he strove to stay cool, keep his temper under control.
Several things then happened at once. "Kurt, it's okay, let's get out of here—" Jane said, as the other man pushed Kurt again. Reaching his limit, Kurt stiffly pushed back, and the man responded with a sloppily thrown punch, the shorter man cuffing Kurt in the ear. That seemed to trigger Kurt like the flip of a switch, like he'd been waiting for someone, anyone, to test his patience, and allow him to vent his frustration from the day's events.
Jane sighed into her drink as Kurt waded with grim enthusiasm into the fight, fists flying, punches strategic as they could be despite the whisky. The crowd backed away, chattering excitedly as the men sparred. Morty leaned over the bar, resigned. "That was building up for a while, eh? I'll let them go, so long as it's fair and clean." Jane responded with another sigh, shaking her head. She turned her eyes back to Kurt, fixated. His eyes were focused, but he was grinning slightly, as if enjoying every second.
The hooting, hollering crowd backed up into Jane, and her bourbon sloshed onto the bartop. Noting that two of the buddies of Kurt's opponent were spoiling to join, she wiped her hands, knocked back the rest of the bourbon, and closed her eyes briefly before sliding off the bar chair.
Jane leapt into the fray just as the two friends jumped in, instantly evening the odds. She let her body take over, as usual, punches and blocks flowing instinctively from her arms, quickly dispatching the more drunken friend; it took few more sharp elbows and a vicious kick to dispatch the other. Kurt had by then finished up the original persistent suitor, wiping a trickle of blood from the edge of his brow.
She shook her hair back, swiping away beads of sweat, breathing hard. "Satisfied?" Men she assumed were Morty's bouncers collected the downed fighters, escorting them from the premises, to the jeers of the crowd.
Kurt grinned guiltily at her, smile crooked. "Yeah," he admitted. "Well, almost." He followed Jane back to her bar seat, where he apologized to Morty, who shrugged it off.
"It happens. Do you feel better now? You were spoilin' for it," Morty responded, pushing fresh drinks in their direction, another whisky and bourbon. "Your lady is a hell of a fighter, Kurt. I see why she's yours."
Fighting back a smile, Kurt turned to Jane. "Are you all right?" he whispered huskily, examining her closely for further injury.
"I'm fine," she insisted, turning to him, napkin in hand. "Now, as for you…" she repressed a smile, wiping the blood from brow. He pressed closer to her, enjoying her ministrations. Morty had politely left them alone in their dim corner of the bar, and she didn't protest as Kurt moved between her legs splayed on the bar seat, gazing down at her intently.
"You should never be treated that way," Kurt muttered in a low voice, and Jane knew he was referring to more than the bar fight.
"I can hold my own," she shot back, and he laughed as he leaned down to gently press his mouth to hers. She returned his kiss immediately, hungrily, pulling him in closer. She could feel the heat of his body, pressed to hers, and the roughness of his beard against her cheeks and chin, and wanted more, leaning into him.
He pulled away at last, panting. "Let me close out my tab, Jane, and we'll get the hell out of here." She understood his smoldering gaze to be both a threat and promise, and felt a delicious thrill course through her body. Taking her hand, with a nod to Morty, Kurt led her out into the night.