Set in S2, but written prior to the premiere. Find me on tumblr at idealisticrealism for more drabbles/oneshots.
It happened slowly.
The first time, he'd walked in just as her round against the punching bag was starting to become violent, his silent gaze somehow loud in the empty, darkened gym. He hadn't said a word; had simply put down his bag and stepped into the ring.
And waited.
Neither of them won that session, both fighting with a determination bordering on ruthlessness; both refusing to back down, only breaking apart when her detail arrived to deliver her home.
For once, she was grateful for how well her tattoos could cover bruises.
When she'd returned to the gym two days later– again well after closing hours– he was already waiting, his body ready and a challenge in his eyes.
A challenge that she met, and then bested, the first win becoming hers.
The next two were his.
Somehow, they formed an unspoken routine, the two of them meeting in the deserted gym every second night, attacking each other until one came out the victor, then parting without a word passing between them.
The team may have noticed their pained movements, the occasional limp or bruise, but clearly chose not to comment, keeping any of their observations to themselves– or at least, not voicing them anywhere that she or Weller might overhear. Much like no one mentioned the way their interactions slowly shifted and changed over the following weeks, Weller's voice becoming a little less cold, his gaze a little less sharp; Jane's temper a little more mild, her words more confident– both of them a little steadier, a little softer.
Day by day, fight by fight, they were learning one another again.
And in all that time, only once did they break their pattern.
The day he learned about her torture at the hands of the CIA, Weller didn't show– instead left her waiting there alone in the silence until she'd turned at last on the punching bag, coming to work the next morning with stiff hands and knuckles that were bruised and split. She'd caught Weller staring at them during their morning briefing, his eyes darting away the moment he'd noticed her attention. He didn't look at her for the rest of the day.
But the next night, when she got to the gym, he was waiting.
She hadn't let him see her relief. She'd simply stepped straight into the ring, and swung at his face.
She'd been the victor that night; though he'd tried to hide it, she knew he'd held back.
And then, as he'd left, he'd paused on the threshold, and broken his own rule.
"You thought I knew, didn't you. About the torture."
She'd said nothing. But the way his jaw clenched as he turned and walked away made it clear that her silence had been answer enough.
From that night onward, it was clear that the fights were not what they had been before. They both still gave everything, still threw themselves completely into the fight, but the rage was gone, the sharp edge somehow smoothed over.
Now, they were no longer enemies, trying to hurt or punish each other. Now, they fought as a means of escape, each providing the other a release from their anger– anger at Sandstorm, at Shepherd, at the world.
Sometimes, she thought it was better therapy than her time with Borden.
Even still, they never talked about it, barely even exchanged a single word during their sessions. Occasionally, though, he would give her a nod in farewell as he left the gym; while she always headed to the locker room to shower and change, he would always exit the building immediately after their fight, spending as little time alone with her as possible.
And even as she hated seeing the door close behind him, she was always grateful for it, each session leaving her heart as exhausted as her body.
Of course, they were alone together at work sometimes; but regardless of the presence of company, they remained merely professional, treating each other civilly but impersonally– though with every week that passed, their teamwork continued to improve, their foundations slowly rebuilding until they were as in sync as they had ever been, the two of them once more bordering on something resembling partners.
And in that time, even the way they touched during their fights had begun to change. His hands were softer– she'd barely had a bruise in over a week– and their spars contained fewer punches and kicks, replaced instead with grapples and throws. Sometimes, he even held out a hand to pull her up off the mat– and sometimes she took it gratefully, giving him a nod of thanks; other times, she used it to throw him to the floor and gain the advantage.
Tonight, though, she did not have the advantage.
Tonight, she was off her game, and Weller knew it.
And exploited it.
Blocking her blows, Weller countered with a flurry of his own, then– moving more fluidly than a man his size should be capable of– he hooked her legs and threw her onto her back, his hands closing like steel bands around her wrists, pinning them firmly above her head.
Breathless and a little stunned, she stared up at him, seeing the gleam of both triumph and genuine enjoyment in his gaze, his blue eyes shining– and for a fleeting second she almost smiled, knowing that she got the same thrill from their matches; the excitement of the challenge, the adrenaline…
And the simple joy of being close to him.
With that thought, her smile died before it ever reached her lips, her chest tightening at the reminder that this was all she would ever get from Weller. All she would ever be to Weller.
And soon, when he got this out of his system, she wouldn't even be a sparring partner. She'd just be someone he had to work with, someone he used to care about, once upon a time.
Her sudden anguish must have shown on her face, because Weller blinked, then narrowed his gaze, frowning down at her.
"What are you doing? I know you can break out of this. Fight back!"
Sucking in a deep breath, Jane closed her eyes and turned her face away, unable to bear the sight of him so close.
"I don't want to."
The moment the words left her lips, she felt him stiffen above her, his grip loosening. When he spoke, his voice had lost its edge, instead sounding confused, almost concerned.
"Did I hurt you?"
Instantly, she felt tears burn behind her eyelids, and clenched them more tightly shut, shaking her head.
"I just can't do this right now," she forced out, cursing herself as a tear slipped free, leaving a damp trail on her skin before dropping onto the mat beneath her.
She knew he saw; his hands released her wrists like she'd burned him, his body straightening so that he was no longer propped above her. She could still feel him, though, kneeling between her spread knees, the position suddenly feeling far too intimate without the heat of the fight.
It was that thought that broke through the spell that held her, and a moment later she had scrambled away from him, pushing herself to her feet before almost running to the locker room, letting the door slam shut behind her.
She was already at her locker, working the lock with trembling fingers, when he shoved open the door to the locker room and strode through, his eyes immediately finding hers.
As he advanced on her, she saw the anger on his face, the tension in his body. "What the hell was that all about?"
Clenching her jaw, she turned back to her locker, her voice as flat and dismissive as she could make it. "It's nothing, Weller. I'll be back for the next fight. Now go home."
Grabbing her arm– his grip firm but not bruising, even in his anger– he spun her back to face him. "Bullshit, Jane. It's not nothing, so don't you dare lie to me. Not again."
"Fine," she shot back, her frustration now matching his. "When we started this, I was angry at you, and Sandstorm, and everything, and I needed something to lash out at. I may not feel that way anymore, but I know you do, so I'm not quitting, okay? I get it. You need a punching bag, and I need–"
"What?" he demanded softly, his voice low and dangerous, his body closing in on hers, trapping her against the locker. "What do you need, Jane?"
Staring up at him, she felt a flash of heat sear through her, her body instantly ablaze with anger or arousal or both. But either way, there was only one answer she could give.
"You," she gritted out, hating giving him the truth as much as he probably hated hearing it. "I need you, Kurt, and if this is the only way I can be close to you, then I'll keep– "
Her words were cut short as Weller's mouth abruptly covered hers, his hands burying themselves in her short hair as his body pressed hers hard against the locker, fire erupting everywhere they touched.
Moaning into his mouth, Jane kissed him back just as fiercely, her fingers clenching tightly in his t-shirt as she immediately pulled him closer– and just like in their fights, neither held back, both pouring everything they felt into the kiss, all the pent up emotion between them finding a new form of release.
Losing herself in it– in him– she whimpered his name, her hands clutching at him, roaming over every inch of him she could reach, his body somehow both so familiar and yet so completely foreign. Growling deep in his throat, he wrapped an arm around her waist, his hand finding its way under her shirt to sear the skin of her back, making her gasp and lift on her toes– the movement bringing them even closer, their hips pressing together, both of them freezing for a split-second at the heightened contact.
And just as the fire within her roared, blazing even hotter, he suddenly tore his mouth away from hers, his breathing hard and uneven as he pulled free of her grip. Stumbling backwards, he hastily put several feet of space between them, and then– without a word, without ever lifting his eyes to hers– he turned sharply and strode from the locker room, the slam of the door echoing loudly in the silence.
Breathless and trembling, Jane leaned limply back against the lockers and let her shaky legs simply give way, her body sinking slowly to the floor.
She didn't move for almost an hour.
The next morning, she deliberately arrived at work just a few minutes late, sighing silently in relief at the sight of the empty locker room. Ignoring the sudden warmth in her cheeks– and elsewhere– as she reached her locker, she quickly put her things away and hurried out, once again adopting the cool, emotionless mask she'd perfected over the past several months.
When she found the small note waiting on her desk, though, she couldn't stop the mask from slipping for just a moment, a hundred emotions swirling within her at the sight of just two words.
Gym. Tonight.
And as it turned out, those two words were the only ones they exchanged all day, neither of them making eye contact or even venturing within several yards of the other unless absolutely necessary.
That was, until she arrived at the gym hours later– muscles tense and stomach full of butterflies– and found him waiting for her, sitting in the middle of the ring with his back to the door, a bottle of bourbon and two tumblers beside him.
As she silently joined him, he poured them each a drink, handing one glass to her before lifting his own. Then, after staring into it for several moments, he drew in a slow breath.
"Someone once told me that people are more than their mistakes," he murmured finally, his voice hoarse. "I'd like to think that includes us, too."
Her eyes wide and throat suddenly tight, she watched as he took a small swallow of his drink, seeing the faint tremor in the liquid even despite his white-knuckled grip, the carefully-controlled tension in his body. She knew that tension well; knew the fear, the longing, the fragile hope– because she felt it too.
She always had.
All this time, she'd thought they were on opposite sides of the fight, thought that she alone still carried the love they'd once shared.
Now, finally, she knew she'd been wrong.
Wordlessly reaching for him, she let her fingers brush lightly over the back of his hand where it rested on the mat between them, her touch tentative, hopeful– and even in the dim light she saw him swallow, his eyes briefly falling shut as he slowly turned his hand over to allow her palm to fit into his, their fingers threading together and gripping tight.
Then, they silently held on to one another, the simple contact telling them all they needed to know.
Yes, their touch could could hurt, could bruise; but it could also heal, had been slowly healing them and drawing them back together since that very first night in the ring, all those weeks ago. And now, sitting with him in that very ring, she knew neither of them would ever stop fighting.
Fighting beside each other and for each other, fighting the obstacles and the doubts and the odds.
Fighting for them.
And with his hand in hers, she knew they would win.