Kurt drove them home, finding a spot to park a couple blocks from their apartment. He took her hand, staying connected with her while they walked their last paces down the sidewalk. In the silence, Kurt attuned to her footsteps, noticing her gait quickly transferring from the right and falling heavier on the left. Her arm swung unevenly, taking his with it on a lopsided journey.
He held the door open for her, ushering her inside, and she took to the stairs. Halfway up the first flight she hissed, her left hand crossing to her right thigh and pressing into the sore muscle. Kurt walked up the few stairs to stand next to her rather than behind her and rested a steadying arm around her waist. "Cramp," she explained, kneading the muscle with the heel of her palm.
He followed the pain through her eyes closing down to the corners of her lips drooping, a recurrent look that day. With a guarded breath, she let go of her leg and tested the next step, wanting to be inside their apartment in pajamas rather than the chilled stairwell. She clenched her jaw through the rest of the stairs, and Kurt let them into the apartment. Thoughts of pajamas pulled her to the bedroom, leaving Kurt to lock up and put her shoes away.
Kurt retrieved her cloth rice bag from the cabinet, warmed it in the microwave, and wrapped it in a clean dishtowel. He carried the nestled cargo to the bedroom and found his wife laying on her back on the floor with her eyes closed, freshly dressed in shorts and swimming in one of his sweatshirts. "I brought your heat pack," he explained, crouching next to her and placing his hand above her right knee where he had seen her hand linger before, "where do you need it?"
"A little bit higher," she guided, and he adjusted, "there."
He replaced his bare hand with the heat pack, and when he was sure it was steady, he sat behind her head, gently working the pads of his fingers into her scalp. When she opened her eyes, he stopped and kissed her forehead. "Thank you," she spoke, reaching her right hand up to hold his.
"Anything else I can do?" he asked.
"No," she declined, "I'm okay."
"Dinner?" he offered.
"Sure. I'll come out in a bit," she promised, her eyes sinking closed in search of peace.
Kurt kissed her forehead again and squeezed her hand before heading to the kitchen.
When Jane emerged from the bedroom to the warmth of curry spices permeating her nose, she thought she would find Kurt cooking, yet she followed the lack of his presence to the balcony. She watched him from inside, staring out at the city, sipping from a mug and resting his other hand on the railing. He turned his head toward her when he heard the slide of the door, and turned to meet her in a hug when she reached him. "Tea?" he tipped his mug toward her in suggestion.
She took a sip, the tea warming her face and trailing to her belly, and returned the mug to him. "The curry smells great," she shared, and he pulled her in front of him, holding her between him and the railing, both of them looking out over the city.
"How's the leg?" he asked, his free arm resting over hers around her waist.
He kept an internal log of her symptoms, gauging which way the daily seesaw of her overall wellness was teetering. "Okay," she responded.
His eyes wandered through the lights of the bridge. "Is there anywhere you want to go?" he voiced his curiosity.
"Wherever the caches take us," she answered rationally.
"I mean…" he started and trailed off, his intent lost on his tongue.
"When this is over, I'd like to go to London and get lost in Shoreditch," Jane considered, "then we can wander the country and you can tell me all about some of the places you've discovered through your books."
"Anywhere you want to go now?" he reframed, his confidence growing from her train of thought.
"Inside?" she joked, diverting the conversation. "It's cold out here, and dinner is waiting from one of my favorite chefs."
"One of your favorite?" he teased, his arm squeezing her middle a little bit tighter.
He pressed a kiss to her bare shoulder where the sweatshirt had fallen to the side and led her back inside.
They sat next to each other at the round table, Kurt having served them both rice and vegan yellow curry. They seemed to have some of their deepest conversations over food lately, having platefuls and eating to keep them occupied through talk of their predicament.
"There's something I've been thinking about," Jane shared.
"What is it?" Kurt asked, his fingers lingering at her elbow.
"I don't want to deteriorate to the point I can't be me," Jane admitted the fear that presented as she experienced more symptoms.
He couldn't promise her that she'd be cured - couldn't promise that he'd find the Stanton cells. He could only promise that he'd give all to try and that he'd be beside her for every rough day along the way. Kurt swallowed, steadying his response. "I'll do everything I can," he emphasized, connecting with her eyes, his crinkles channeling his love for her.
"You're already doing so much. I'm so grateful," she took another bite of her curry and swallowed, needing to explain, "I promised you honesty…"
She trailed off and took another bite as cover. "It's okay to be scared," he soothed, catching her elbow in his hand and seeking her eyes once more, "I'm scared."
She dipped her chin in a quiet nod of understanding. Her nightmares and flashbacks reared a cacophony of fears, competing to bring her to her knees. None of the fears were constructive, so she shut the twisted music box and buried it in the recesses of her mind to focus on what she had left of her life. She was careful that only a few major notes strayed through the lid. "If the pain gets worse…" she trailed off again.
"Tell me. We'll get through it together. Whatever you need," he assured.
Comforted by his confidence, she nodded, trading her fork for weaving her fingers in his, staying connected while he finished his curry.
Well fed and showered, Kurt emerged from the bathroom to Jane sitting in bed, resting against the headboard. When the mattress sunk beside her, she set her phone on the nightstand and met her husband's lips, some stray moisture in his beard transferring to her cheek. His hand drifted to her thigh, and he suggested, "How about a light massage?"
"That would be wonderful," she admitted, giving him another kiss.
He focused his attention on her right thigh, carefully molding her muscles and varying the pressure based on the tension beneath his fingertips and lining her face. He repeated the same on her left thigh, then snuck his hand up under the sweatshirt, brushing the soft skin of her stomach. He kissed her softly, and she drew his bottom lip between hers, initiating a series of languid kisses. Her fingers migrated to his chest, seeking familiarity in the sprawl of hair, and his hand rose, his thumb tracing the crease under her left breast. "Mmmm," she moaned into his mouth, their tongues meandering.
He took a brief pause from caressing her breast to catch the hem of the sweatshirt, pulling it over her head and leaving her locks askew. He teased, nipping beneath her ear and tracing kisses to her collarbone, goosebumps trailing in his wake. He traversed her bare skin in faint kisses, covering every inch he cherished. They embraced the present, exploring and savoring each other to blissful peak, then fell asleep in each other's arms.