Off The Boards
"I'm taking your keys."
"Take 'em, I don't give a shit. C'mon Liz, Just one more, I promise."
"You said that the last two drinks, Natasha."
"Jesucristo. Please—for the love of all things holy—do not call me that!"
I should know better than to get mad at people when they do that; use my full name like a threat, like it's something I'll actually care about. They're not mind readers, it's not like they know how much I hate hearing it. It's not their fault I don't tell them, but then again it's not a story I want to tell, let alone remember, and it's definitely not one they need to hear. The world is full enough of sad and sorry people with their sob stories, I refuse to contribute to the masses. Being a victim has never been a prerogative of mine, thank you very much.
However, victim I may not be, hypocrite I am—for tonight at least. Even though Liz has seen my haunt her place a few times before, in the big scheme of things she's just another clueless bar tender, and I'm just another girl who sat down at her bar. It's not her fault I've had too much to drink, that I can't keep my temper in check when I do. You are your mother's daughter after all.
"Sorry, Liz." I push my empty glass toward her across the bar top, my white flag of surrender, and an apology for snapping at her. I can't help but eye the bottle of whiskey behind her head on the wall with a lingering glare of disappointment. If I was going to suffer through a hangover in the morning, it would've been nice not to remember tonight.
The middle aged woman watches me with narrowed eyes, unimpressed, shaking her head with pursed lips, not even bothering to try and hide her disapproval. Fortunately, instead of asking me questions, or trying to preach to me, she pours me a glass of water instead, and swaps it out for the empty one in front of me.
"Try to sober up before close, Zapata," she frowns, and her irritation with me is the overshadowed by the worry on her face, crowding the laugh lines and the wrinkles, making her seem much older than she is. It's a wonder, really, she doesn't have more gray hair than she does. Between her three teenagers and running a business, and the rare occasion I show up to give her hell, I don't know how she finds time to worry about all her bar patrons past making sure they pay their tabs.
She's just trying to help I think, don't be such a bitch. Then again, it wouldn't be the first time someone tried to help, and it probably won't be the last time either. There's a long trail of corpses behind me, ghosts of all the past attempts people have made "just trying to help."
One of these days, maybe, I'll let them.
I swirl the water on the bar top with my index finger, cutting through the rings from where the glass is sweating onto the marble, and I sip at the water in my free hand. The bar is pretty empty except for a few stragglers, and the couple in the corner who've been eating each other's face for the past hour. Liz had told me to shut up or she'd kick me out when I'd yelled at them to get a room. Love is overrated, that's what I want to tell them when I glance at them now—just wait a couple months, instead of throwing yourselves at each other, you'll be throwing screaming, pissed off words instead, and maybe your mother's china plates.
Not that I'm speaking from experience.
I force myself to look away, resist the urge to let the surplus of catty comments fly and bite my tongue. If I can't walk home in an hour, I'll call a cab, or maybe I can talk Liz into letting me sleep right here on the bar, because that would be preferable to going home. Home is something that will remind me of my life, and right now my life is something I kinda hate.
I close my eyes and think about the letter I'd left in a sealed envelope on my desk. The one telling Mayfair I was resigning, the first good decision I'd made in weeks. I think about Carter and his fucking bullshit. I think about Jane…
My stomach lurches and my head spins a bit, but I don't think it's the alcohol so much as it is the guilt.
You fucked up royally, Tash.
It wouldn't be the first time that happened either.
I sigh, looking up from my hands and the glass that they're clutching, searching the surface of the bar for my phone to go ahead and call a cab. When I can't find it, I start searching the pockets of my trench coat, rather ungracefully and in what feels like slow motion, but they're empty too, no phone to be found.
"Looking for this?" Liz asks sardonically, holding up my iPhone in one hand, brandishing it from where she's drying off clean glasses behind the bar.
"Really?" I ask with an exasperated scowl, "what are you going to do, call my mom? Good luck with that. "
"No, but she did call me."
There's nothing quite as sobering as Kurt Weller's pissed-off voice in your ear.
I would've jumped, but my reflexes are pretty much nonexistent at the moment, so the best I can do is shift away from Kurt with a groan, laying my head on the cool surface of the bar to try and stop the spinning. It's one thing if your boss finds you shit-faced at the bar, it's another thing entirely if your boss also happens to be one of your closest friends.
"Why'd you have to call him?" I mumble, but it's mostly unintelligible and slurred when it comes out of my mouth.
"Why wouldn't you?" Kurt interrupts, taking my phone and keys when Liz hands them to him, shoving them both in his coat pocket with a frown. "What's going on Tasha? Andy's anniversary isn't for two more months, and Noah's was back in May… Is it Alex? Because if he's bothering you again I'm going to have that asshole indicted—"
"Kurt."
"Yeah?"
"Please stop."
I don't need the one person in my life who knows all my shit reminding me about every little detail. I slowly pick my head up to look at him with baleful eyes, and what I imagine are probably red eyes, too. In fact, if anything, I probably look like shit, or at the very least halfway to homeless. Enough whiskey on an empty stomach will do that too you, but the burn every time it hit the back of my throat had been worth it, even if end up puking my guts up later.
It's penance, that's all, because drinking yourself sick is so much easier than seeking atonement. You could just tell him…
Telling him means revealing the truth, though. Telling him means bringing all my demons to the surface, putting them on the stand for the judge and jury. And I can't decide what's worse; the fact that I betrayed all the people I care about by selling Jane out to Carter for fucking juice money, or the fact that I've been gambling for the past twelve months when Kurt thought I'd been clean the entire time.
"If you won't talk about it, then we're leaving." Kurt says, hand on my shoulder, and I want to shake him off, to tell him to leave me here and let me be miserable, but I can't. He didn't have to come, I remind myself, you should be thankful.
"Fine, dad," the effect of my sarcasm is lost in the haze of the alcohol, the words lacking their usual sharpness. I manage to pull myself up into a sitting position long enough to find the wad of cash in my pocket, leaving more than enough on the bar top for Liz, because a good tip is the least I can do for her. Kurt waits beside me, hand held out expectantly. I close my eyes and steel myself with a deep breath before reaching for it and letting him pull me to my feet.
My balance is about as good as a linebacker who's been given a heavy dose of sedative, and I fall into Kurt, my hands on his chest as I steady myself, my head spinning while he grapples to keep me from falling to the floor. I can't help but notice, being this close to him, that the smell of his cologne is different—it smells too light. Too girly. And strangely familiar…
"Where have you been?" I ask, peering back at him, trying to focus on his face, but it's hard to do when there's more than one of them, "more importantly, who were you with?"
I can't really tell, because the lighting in the bar sucks, and Kurt is almost always unreadable anyway, but I could swear for a split second his cheeks turn a shade of pink. For a moment my own despondent wallowing in despair is sidetracked by my inability to ignore things that make people uncomfortable. It's the opportunist in me, the capitalist, always looking for the things that make people tick, and right now I ned to know what could possible cause Special Agent Kurt Weller to go red in the face. I need to know so badly that I forget he's holding me up, and even though Kurt's a bonafide grizzly bear, I'm no light weight.
"Can ya stand up, Tash?"
"Right—standing up," I move my hands to his shoulders, finding my feet while the rest of the world continues to spin, "but I'm not letting go of you until you tell me, so spill it."
"I wasn't with anyone," Kurt mutters, shaking his head, "and even if you wanted to let go, I doubt that'd work out very well for you right this second." I give an amused looking Liz one last forlorn, parting wave as Kurt pulls me toward the door. It's slow going as we make our way outside to the parking lot, Kurt all but dragging me with him. I'm glad to have his waist to cling to, because right now seeing straight and walking straight are both really fucking hard. And Kurt can tell. "Jesus, Tash, how much did you drink?"
"Bullshit," I snort, "and not enough."
I ignore his I'm prepared to barrage him with an interrogation for the ages, because if Kurt's been having late night rendezvous with some strange woman, there's no way in hell I'm not going to figure out who it is. But before I can, my stomach has other ideas.
In an effort to save what little face I have left, I jerk away from Kurt and double over, the remnants of the wings and whiskey I'd had a few hours ago expelling themselves onto the asphalt of the parking lot.
Kurt snatches my hair back form my face, holding it out of the way, and the other hand grabs the back of my coat collar, a safety net while I balance my hands on my knees until all I can do is dry heave and spit up bile.
"You gunna make it?" he asks softly, and I really, really want to punch him, because he's being too god damn nice and I hate him for it. I don't deserve to be taken care of by anyone, not right now, not when I didn't take care of the people who actually cared about me.
I'm going to make it all right—straight to the special place in hell with my name on it.
"To be honest, Kurt, I don't know."
Sure, it's an omission of the truth, but at least it's not another lie.
It's been a while since we've been here, Kurt and I, but somehow there's comfort in the familiarity, even if I don't really want to admit it.
He struggles to get me up the stairs to my apartment, to open the door, to get me out of my coat and then drag me the rest of the way down the hall to the bathroom. It's been years since we've been through the motions of this charade, but I remember all the times he's rescued me before, and he does too. So Kurt, being the stand up guy he is, picks up as if he never stopped. His instincts are the product of having to save me from my drunken self one too many times; he gets the shower going, he knows where my clothes are in my room, he even reminds me not to fall asleep and drown in the tub.
"You're an ass, Weller."
"Love you too, Tasha."
I'd like to flip him off when he closes the bathroom door, but I'm hugging the toilet instead, praying to the porcelain gods, as you do in these scenarios. I can't help but think that drowning in my own bath water would be a kinder death for everyone involved.
I should be glad he's here—that someone is here—but my all consuming, smothering self-hatred overwhelms the appreciation.
It shouldn't have to be this way. You shouldn't need people to save you from yourself.
Piece by painful piece, my pulse all but exploding in my head, I manage to strip out of my clothes without having to barf, and I manage to stand and get into the shower without falling, both major achievements. The wall holds me up now, and I let the scorching hot water sear my skin, burning every inch, because I'd been so cold just a moment ago. Maybe it's a good thing after all, that Liz called him. If Kurt hadn't shown up at the bar, he would have shown up in the emergency room, where a doctor would have told him the tragic story of how I wound up with alcohol poisoning, and almost killed myself by aspirating on my own vomit.
No, Kurt didn't deserve that. But he didn't deserve this, either.
How did you get here, Tash?
It's a question I don't really have an answer to, though there's a hundred different explanations that would do, various pieces of the past that fall together to perpetuate the living nightmare of the present. It would be so simple to blame it on the past—the absentee father who set me up for failure, the alcoholic mother that barely kept us fed, the dead brother, the ex that did me in—but those are easy outs. It's Shakespeare that coined the saying, "the sins of the father are to be laid upon the children." Maybe it's true, but I haven't exactly done a great job trying to repent.
That's it though, the crux of the mater; my inability to admit that I'm wrong. That's why everything keeps spiraling out of control, because I refuse to be ashamed, to admit I need help, because admitting something's wrong means admitting something's broken. And I refuses to be that that too—the damaged thing that needs someone to fix them.
I can fix myself.
I start by willing myself to sober up. Slowly but surely I return to feeling vaguely human, I manage to wash my hair, to get rid of the smell of the alcohol and the bar, and I sit under the stream of water until my apartment's shitty water heater all but gives out. I sit there until the water turns to ice, before reaching up to shut it off.
I'm not sure how much time has passed by the time I wander into my living room until I see the bright (but still blurry) 3:03 in the morning blinking at me from the cable box. I'm in sweats that are too big and an old NYPD sweatshirt, my hair is a wet, tangled mess, and what's left of my mascara from earlier is still smudged under my eyes—I'm doing good to have clothes on at all at this point, looking like I walked straight out of a horror movie is just an added bonus of being incredibly hungover.
I don't realize the shadow slumped over on the couch isn't actually a shadow until I get closer; Kurt's silhouette morphs out of the dark, crammed into one corner of the couch, his legs stretched out so far in front of him he's moved my coffee table, because he's too tall for almost every piece of furniture I own.
I'm surprised he's still here, because he doesn't have to be, but the selfish part of me is glad he stayed.
Kurt always stays, you know that. He always does, always has, but just because someone stays doesn't mean they won't change there mind, I know that too.
"You alive?"
I blink down at him, realizing he's peering up at me, blue eyes bright against the shadows of his face. They're tinged with a hint of amusement, but there's genuine concern too, and I want to tell him that he doesn't have to worry. I'm fine. I'll be fine. I can't make myself say the words though, because if I can't believe it, he shouldn't have to either, and I'm so tired of all the lies—so fucking tired.
"Barely," I mumble, using one hand for support as I round the couch, lowering myself carefully down onto the opposite end.
"Wanna talk about it?" Kurt studies me, his head still leaned back against the cushions, arms crossed. It's not so much a question as a gentle demand.
"Not really," I admit, curling my knees into my chest, my arms wrapped around them. I roll my neck and take a deep breath, "you didn't have to do this you know, come and get me. I'm a big girl, I can take care of myself."
Kurt raises a skeptical eyebrow, tilts his head, "I might say otherwise, from where I'm sitting."
"Spare me the big brother routine," the words are sharp, severe, "if you have something to say, Weller, spit it out."
It's all too easy to take the defensive, to build walls out of words, constructing ramparts out of excuses. I live it and I breathe it, and if I'm honest the defensive is all I know, it's what I'm good at—it's what I'm best at. And yet my challenge to Kurt isn't really a challenge at all, even if that's what I tell myself. If anything it's a cry for help, not that I'd ever admit it. Not that I'd ever actually ask for it.
"It's been a long time since you've done something like this, Tasha," Kurt offers more softly, with less accusation and more concern, "I know it takes a lot to push you over the edge, but I know what it looks like once you're there, too, and…" he hesitates, choosing his words carefully, "it's just pretty damn close."
I close my eyes and pull my knees tighter to my chest. I force myself to breathe, and not to flee, when that's really all I want—to get away from all of it, to run. I can't run though, because there's no where left to go, and for once in my life I'm momentarily grateful to be trapped, to be cornered, because I can't take it anymore. Something has to give.
Maybe it's the lingering affects of the alcohol. Maybe I'm just desperate. Desperate. That word leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, like rust on something that's weathered one too many storms, like blood when you've bit your tongue from trying to keep quiet for too long. Regardless, the words come out before I can stop them, before I can really think about the ramifications, the consequences, the fact that I'll have to tell the whole story. I'll have to tell him about Carter and I'll have to tell him about Jane and how I fucked it all up.
Are you ready for that?
Too late.
"I bet the limit on a four-team parlay during the NFL playoffs and won the first three."
I finally open my eyes, and when I do I can't look away from the train wreck happening in front of me, the one I caused. Kurt's face goes from worried to sad to disappointed all in the blink of an eye. He's confused at first, but then the light bulb goes off over his head, and the reality of what I've said settles over him like a cloud. His eyes darken, and his face falls, becoming just as somber as the shadows of the apartment around him. All I can think is that he looks so sad. He looks so disappointed. And it's my fault.
It's always my fault.
"And the last one?" Kurt asks, not moving an inch from where he's frozen on the couch.
"I lost." The story of my fucking life.
"How much?" Kurt's jaw clenches and unclenches, his arms still crossed. I can see him sizing up the situation in his head, I can see him doing the math, counting how many weeks I've been hiding this from him, how many months.
"Forty grand," I pause, then let the other shoe drop, "after I tried to win it back and lost on a double or nothing that wiped out my savings."
"Fuck, Tasha!"
Watching Kurt, I realize that admitting what I've done isn't even the most painful part. No, what hurts the most, what's even more agonizing, is that as mad as he wants to be with me, it's not what he is. I'm left waiting for something that isn't going to happen; someone to yell at me, yank me up of the ground, tell me how big of a fucking idiot I am, but I know Kurt won't do that—he's not me. I can see the gears turning in his head, I can see him going back through the weeks and months, trying to figure out how he never noticed I'd fallen back in. Instead of being angry, he's asking himself a million different questions, but they'll all come back to the same grave with all his other skeletons. Why did he let it happen? Why was he too late?
Because that's what Kurt Weller does, he blames everything on himself and leaves nothing for anyone else.
The silence is gaping, suffocating, and I struggle to find something to say to him, some sort of excuse, but there aren't any.
I want to tell him I'm sorry, as if that empty, useless word would somehow make it better.
I want to tell him everything.
But then his phone rings.
We both jump, because the sudden, shrill scream of the electronic device disrupts the silence, invades it. Kurt cusses under his breath and digs in the pocket of his jacket laid over the back of the couch, retrieving the phone and peering at it with narrowed eyes. He looks up to me quickly with a frown, and before he answers says, "it's Mayfair."
Something's wrong, I can feel it in the way my stomach flips, in the way the air gets sucked out of the room. That's all it takes, a shift in the atmosphere, a reminder that our jobs permeate all facets of our lives, to bring my crisis of conscience to an abrupt halt. I straighten up—sobering up—and my legs criss cross in front of me while I watch Kurt. His face goes from nonplussed, to anxious, and then panicked as he stands up and grabs his jacket, grappling for his keys.
"What do you mean she's in a hospital—is she ok? What the hell happened?"
I know before he even has to say it. It's Jane. There's no other reason Kurt would have that terrified look on his face. And my stomach drops, because I know that look—the one someone gets when they one thing you care about is about to be snatched away from you.
"Where the hell was her detail? Wait, shit—" There's painful recognition on his face then "—no, no it's nothing. I just thought…" he looks at me, and then runs a hand over his face, "yes ma'am, I'll call Zapata and Reade. We'll be there."
"What happened, Kurt?" I stand up as he hangs up the call, shoving the phone back in his pocket.
"Goddammit. I should have never let her go home alone," Kurt struggles to hurry back into his jacket, almost trips over the coffee table trying to step around it, he doesn't even hear my question.
So he was with her. Not that being right matters, it's a hollow victory now.
"Kurt," I grab his arm, and his eyes flash, like he's been spooked, "what happened?"
"It's Jane, she's at New York Methodist, she admitted herself to the emergency room."
"What?"
"Mayfair's already there. She said she was jumped on the street after she left my place and—" he can't finish his sentence, he just shakes his head "—after everything we've done to be careful—" Kurt looks at me, pained, panicked "—I need to go, are you going to be ok by yourself?"
"If you think I'm staying you're an idiot," I let go of his arm, "let me put on some jeans and a bra, ok? Go start the car, I'll meet you downstairs."
"Tasha…"
"Just go, ok?" I gesture between us, to the space we couldn't fill just moments before. "Don't worry, I won't use this as an excuse to blow you off. I promise you can interrogate me later."
"It's not like that, Tash," Kurt frowns, and for a moment he's back on earth, and he calls after me as I turn and head for my room, "I know I'm not your keeper, but you should know by now that you can trust me."
That makes me stop and turn back to him.
"I know, Kurt, it's just… not that easy."
It's never been that easy.
Kurt doesn't say anything else, choosing to accept the impasse, knowing better than to push the argument. It's easy for him to let it go this time, because his head isn't anywhere near here right now. He just nods, and heads for the door, and I wait until I hear it shut behind him before I take a deep breath and turn back toward my room. I hurry and change into clean jeans, a slightly more appropriate top than my tattered Columbia alumni t-shirt, and I snatch my badge of the bedside table where Kurt had set it earlier.
I stare at it for a second, brushing my thumb over the gold surface of the metal, letting it linger on the engraving. It's almost like it's taunting me, and my hand twitches, thinking I'd like nothing better than to throw it across the room, but I don't. I think about the letter still sitting on my desk, and the same panic that had taken a hold of Kurt earlier tries to dig it's claws into me too, and I can feel it, cold and smothering and acutely there. Is this because of Carter? Did something happen to Jane because of me? The badge in my hand becomes heavy, an anchor to damn me, one more thing to sink me to the bottom of the river I'm already drowning in.
How much longer do you keep doing this?
I close my eyes and clip the badge to my waist.
I make the choice to carry the weight.
AN: So I wrote this initially in response to the first week of BShiatusfics prompts, with any characters at a bar. I am using the finished product for week two as well, for the prompt of "missing scene/alternate ending". Imagine this happening after 1.10, the same night Jane got abducted. I'm not really satisfied with it to be honest, because it was a exploratory foray into writing in first person, but I've been picking at it for so long I'm going to let it be. I have a whole backstory for her (thanks to the help of my lovely F, who is my brain twin) and I wish I had time to write it all down, because it explains a lot of why she is the way she is (at least for me, lol). I say it all the time, but Tash is my favorite. I just have a lot of fun writing her, I guess because on some level I relate to her more so than the other characters. She just speaks to me ya know? ANYWAYS, thanks as always for any feedback/reviews/response, good or bad. Maybe I'll finally get back to the my Jeller fic now hehehe. ;)