I don't own Blindspot. All rights belong to NBC.

Laughter as Told By Jane Doe

"If we couldn't laugh we would all go insane." -Robert Frost

The first time Jane laughs it's not really a laugh at all, but emotions have to escape our bodies somehow and there weren't any more tears left. She's sitting on the wood floor, staring at her legs, her arms, her hands, and it hurts so much to know that her body, her body, is covered in stories and warnings and memories and that she has none to claim as her own. Not a single tattoo is hers. She's not a teenager who got a butterfly tattooed on her wrist to symbolise her metamorphosis from a girl to a woman. She's not a grief-stricken daughter who had her mother's favorite bird permanently captured on her neck. She's not a fiance who got the name of her one true love written on her back. She's not a child, mother, daughter, sister, friend and none of the stories on her body are hers.

Jane stands up on shaky legs, picks up the previously-discarded robe, and walks to the window. A whole city full of people and lights and memories lies below her. She wants to be outside with them. She wants to feel the air and smell the food and touch the pavement, so she opens the window. The lock is rusty and Jane is half expecting FBI agents to run in and pull her away from the window any second, but no one comes and that's when she hears them, a group of teenagers walking just below her. They all are holding grocery bags, wrapped in warm coats, enormous grins on their faces, and happiness shining in their eyes and Jane would give anything to be down there with them as they laugh. As they walk further and further she's half tempted to lean out the window and call them back. She wants to know where they're coming from, where they're going, and where they've been. She wants to ask if they know where she's from, where she should go, and where she once was. She wants to hear their stories in hopes of filling her own storyless body with something other than tears. She wants to be something that isn't empty and instead of crying, she simply sinks to the floor and laughs and laughs until the laughter turns to tears and consciousness turns to sleep and hopes that when she opens her eyes the unending emptiness will be gone.

The second time Jane laughs it's not quite a laugh, but it's significantly closer. Reade, Zapata, and Weller are all out (Doing a report? Giving a report? Or was it a debrief?) on some case she hadn't been a part of so Patterson was in charge. In change of babysitting the amnesiac. It sounded a bit like a soap opera and the thought brings a small smile to Jane's face, just a quick quirk on one side of her lips, but it's enough that Patterson, ever observant, notices. "Was that a smile? Did Jane, the Jane, finally smile?"

Jane rolls her eyes and the smile grows a little larger, "Maybe…"

"You've got a pretty smile. Did you know smiling boosts your immune system?"

"No. Why would smiling help you not get sick?"

Patterson pauses for a moment, her brow furrowing and a look of confusion spreading across her face, "I… I have absolutely no idea. I've been telling people that fact for years now and I have no idea how it could be true. Jane, what've you done?" The blond races from the table they had been sitting at and to her desk. After waiting a second while Patterson Googles (Is that even a word? Googles?) the fact, Jane places her hands on the table to push her chair out when something extremely strange happens. The chair spins. "What the…" Jane whispers to herself as she tries to spin the chair again. "Patterson," the scientist nods her head in Jane's direction without ever turning around, "I think I broke your chair."

Now she has Patterson's attention. "You did what to my chair?" she asks as she races over, seemingly on the verge of hyperventilation.

"I don't know. It just started spinning. I was trying to get out and it just… Why are you laughing?"

"You didn't know that the chairs spin?"

"Why would they do that?"

"Because it's fun."

"But they're chairs."

"Yeah. Fun chairs. I'll show you; sit down."

45 minutes later when the agents return from their debrief, report, whatever they find Patterson and Jane spinning each other around the tech lab, laughing quietly.

The third time Jane laughs it's out of pure relief. Kurt is at the office, Sarah is at a doctor's appointment, and Jane is regretting offering to watch Sawyer since she couldn't see herself being particularly useful to the FBI that day. Things had gone off without a hitch for the first half an hour or so, but then Sawyer was hungry and the macaroni and cheese wasn't where it was supposed to be and Sawyer was yelling and Jane forgot to turn off the stove so the water in the pot overflowed and the boy's DS died and Jane was really, really wishing that she could have been dealing with a terrorist instead.

"When's Mommy coming home?"

"I don't know. Soon."

"How soon?"

"I don't know."

"Why is your hair short?"

"Because I like it that way."

"Do you work with Uncle Kurt?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Don't you want to read a story?"

"No. I want to play my game and eat lunch."

"Will you eat a sandwich?"

"No. Mommy promised macaroni and cheese. I want macaroni and cheese."

Yeah, a terrorist would have been significantly easier. At least they wouldn't ask for food that was nowhere to be found or...crash. "Uhhhh… Jane? The vase broke." No. No. Just no. No more cleaning or crying or messes. Jane raced over to find that, yes, the vase had indeed broken, and yes, the glass was everywhere, and, no, the broom wasn't anywhere, and of course Sawyer was about to step in the pile of glass. And then the phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Jane! It's Sarah. I was calling to ask how things were going."

"They're going just...swell." Swell? Jane would have kicked herself if Sawyer hadn't already been taking care of that.

"Jane, what does 'swell' mean? It sounds stupid," Sawyer asked before delivering one more kick to her shins.

Covering the speaker on the phone, Jane looked down and the boy and whispered, "It means that you're in trouble if you don't stop kicking me."

"Oh."

"Jane? Jane, are you there?" Sarah's muffled voice said from under Jane's hand.

"Uh, yeah. Sorry about that. Sawyer was just asking me a question."

"So things are going well?"

"Yeah. They're going great."

"So, um, I realized I forgot to get some groceries we need for dinner today, would you be willing to hold down the fort for another hour?"

Jane's heart stopped and she was two seconds away from praying for the FBI to come and take her away or something, anything, when the door opened. And there he was. Kurt Weller, her savior in her greatest hour of need, home to do who knows what. "Uh, yeah. Yeah, just a second. I've gotta go." Jane hung up on Sarah before she could say another word.

Kurt, still standing in the doorway, simply surveyed the disaster of an apartment before turning to Sawyer, who in turn pointed at Jane and said "It's her fault."

"Sure it is, kid. Grab the broom. Let's clean this up before your mom gets home." Jane was certain that her face was one of complete relief as she collapsed onto the couch behind her, laughter bubbling up from inside her.

But the happiness was short-lived as Sawyer's voice called, "Um, Uncle Kurt? Jane left the stove on…" which was then followed by by the fire alarm going off.

The fourth time Jane laughs she doesn't even notice it. New York City has rapidly become her home. The lights, cars, and strange food have become her favorite sights and the shouts of pedestrians, music blasting from headphones, and dozens of languages her favorite song. Early in the week she saw it snow for the first time and with the snow came her excitement for the upcoming holidays and with that excitement came invitations to colleagues' homes for Thanksgiving the next day. Ultimately Sarah and Kurt had won the right to have her for dinner, but Jane had agreed to join Zapata to watch football and was planning on having Patterson and her boyfriend over the night before so they could teach her how to bake a pie and how to play their favorite board games. For the first time in a while, Jane felt happy and excited. She knew what was in store for the next 48 hours and everything would have been perfect if it weren't for her inability to find something called satin flour. She had never heard of such a thing, but the recipe she had found had called for it and the reviews had raved about how using the alternate flour had really made the pie. It had been four hours and 28 minutes and three grocery stores and she couldn't find it anywhere. Sarah had promised that Jane could use a different kind of flour, but based on how well Sarah cooked, Jane wasn't certain that trusting her on this subject was the best idea and neither Zapata or Reade (who turned out to be one of the best bakers in the NYC FBI) were answering their phones, despite Jane's dozen or so voicemails, so Jane was left with only one option. She sighed and out her phone.

"Hello!" Patterson's seemed to shout through the phone. "We still on for tonight?"

"Yeah, but I've got a question for you. Where would I find satin flour?"

"Satin flour? Hey, boyfriend, get over here! Do you know where Jane can find satin flour? Jane, are you certain that satin flour is even a thing? It sounds made up."

"Yeah, I Googled it."

"She says it's a real thing." Patterson yelled to her boyfriend.

"Try that place a couple blocks down from your place. You know the one with the flowers on the window and that dog."

"Already done."

"Did you try the store you always go to to get those Indian spices?"

"Why would they have satin flour?"

"I don't know! Why would you be outside in the snow the day before Thanksgiving calling me about finding something called satin flour?" Jane really wished that Patterson could see her perplexed face. "On second thought, that's not that strange. I don't know Jane. Chances are you can use just plain old flour. You've got more than enough."

"How do you know how much flour I have?"

"No reason. Nope. No reason whatsoever."

"Patterson, have you been looking through my stuff?"

"No. Sorry, Jane, gotta go. Gotta plan super big stuff and blow up these…" Patterson's voice was muffled as someone hung up the phone. Rolling her eyes, Jane pivoted on her heel as she turned to head home and check every grocery store en route.

Another two hours later Jane was nodding to the two agents outside her door with a bag of what turned out to be called silk flour (in her defense, she was stressed about making her first pie and satin and silk aren't that different) in her arms. They unlocked the door for her and Jane handed them each a corn dog she had picked up on the way home and she walked into the house, which was completely and utterly covered by...flour. "What the…?"

"SURPRISE!" Patterson shouted as she jumped out from behind Jane's couch.

"Patterson! We agreed we wouldn't do that. It's not a surprise party, it's a surprise flour war. That's why we told you not to bring the balloons," Zapata scolded as she came out of Jane's closet.

"But…"

Whatever Patterson was going say was cut off as a laughing Jane threw an enormous pile of flour at her.

The fifth time Jane laughs she can't help herself. She's sitting at Kurt's table for their normal Sunday dinner, recounting the story of the now infamous flour war to Sarah. "And then they came out of nowhere and everything, everything, was covered in flour."

"Where on Earth did they get the idea to have a flour war the day before Thanksgiving?" Sarah asked with her fork halfway to her mouth.

"No idea. Patterson said it was some sort of running joke and that when Zapata heard me call it satin flour instead of silk flour they figured it would be a great chance to check an item off of their bucket lists." Jane's eyes are nothing short of glittering as she takes a bite of Sarah's mashed potatoes (which have improved significantly since the first time) and they remain that way throughout the meal, dessert, and the ride home. Routine has become the center of Jane's life and by 11:30 she finds herself staring at her tattoos once again. The FBI knows what a dozen of them mean by now and the stories the respective images, numbers, and letters represent have come to a close. She's different from who she was before and Jane thinks that about how ironic it all is. So many people would give anything to be a blank slate, to not have the guilt of yesterday and the fear of tomorrow hanging over their heads and she had that. Granted, she also had her entire body tattooed, but she had been a clean slate in every other sense of the word when she had woken up in Times Square. And now, months later, she had blood on her hands and had the weight of lives on her shoulders, but nothing could compare to the light in her eyes. A blank slate, she figured, didn't have to worry or care about what had been or what would be coming, but they also couldn't remember eating ice cream in the snow, saving lives, having flour thrown in their face. A blank slate is a beautiful thing for sure, but it's also empty and alone. And it's in that moment, staring at her face and the tattoos that mark her entire body, that Jane Doe realizes exactly how far she's come from being a Jane Doe. The name that represents a lost soul with no family, no money, no story had become hers to own and to answer to. Jane Does were meant to be empty girls and this Jane Doe had chosen to fill herself with friends and games and happiness and work and laughter. It had been a good choice.

As Jane crawled into bed a thought came to her and a small laugh came out of her mouth, a real laugh, not faked or awkward or sad, but a genuine laugh. Afterall, wasn't it funny for Jane Doe, the girl covered in ink and stories, to think about going to a tattoo parlor the next day? Wasn't the thought of such a life worth a laugh?

Hey guys! Long time no see. I haven't written any fanfiction in a couple of years so every piece of feedback would be greatly appreciated.

Make sure to laugh today,

-Smiles