Summary: There's just so much pressure all around them. The increasingly high stakes in their attempts to unravel the mystery of Jane's past. The weight of expectations that might never be fulfilled. Yet, the thing that might be the fuse to make it all blow up in their faces is that undercurrent of instant familiarity - attraction, surging between them.
Pairings: Jane/Weller, some brief mentionings of Weller's past relationship with Allie, as well as past Jane/Oscar
Genres: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Drama, Romance, Friendship
Spoilers: Contains numerous spoilers up to 1x14, as well as very strong similarities to and likely spoilers for episodes after that.
Warnings: This contains at least one steamy love scene. There's also some violence, including mentioning and flashbacks of torture.
Author's Notes: I only recently got around to really watch this show after having caught glimpses of later episodes on TV. Needless to say; I'm completely hooked on Blindspot right now! Originally, this was just supposed to be a oneshot based on the first thirteen episodes, but during the admittedly lengthy process of writing this first chapter my idea evolved way past that and now this story will continue all the way to the season 2 finale - after which I might write a sequel, but we'll see about that. Anyways, this starts off between "Rules In Defiance" (ep. 1x14) and "Older Cutthroat Canyon" (ep 1x15). Enjoy reading!
With Great Pain He Cedes, Broken
It had been a rough couple of days, and especially the past twenty-four hours had taken their toll, which was why, even though by now it was way past midnight, Kurt Weller was still wide awake. After spending seemingly endless hours trying to sleep and yet merely finding himself either ceaselessly tossing and turning or staring blankly at the ceiling instead, he was now sitting on the couch in his living room, lost in his thoughts while occasionally taking a long swig of bourbon from the glass in his hand.
The trouble had started three days ago when Patterson had decoded another one of Jane's tattoos, which had initially led them to a group of radical enviornmentalists. Yet, as the investigation progressed, some rather troubling connections had emerged, confirming their growing suspicions that they were in fact dealing with eco-terrorists and it hadn't come as a surprise that, as it so happened, the group was gearing up for an imminent, major attack. With no clear indication of what their actual target might be, it had eventually been decided that they would take down the cell before they could enact their plans, the hope being that, not only they could prevent the attack, but also convince the group's members to lead them to their criminal contacts. Needless to say, when the team had moved in this morning to arrest them, things had not gone according to plan...
With time being of the essence, due to the likelihood of an impending attack, they had driven upstate to make the arrests as soon as Patterson had been able to give them a location for the hideout of the group's leaders. Once they had reached their destination, a remote area near Albany, they geared up and, in coordination with the local authorities, they stormed the house. Given the group's reputation, they had anticipated notable resistence, yet to their surprise those present surrendered almost immediately. However, this apparent cooperation turned out to be a mere distraction, as when Weller and his team proceeded to arrest them, the three leaders decided to try and make a run for it. So, he and Jane went after them, while he left Reade and Zapata in charge of wrapping things up with the arrests and searching the property.
Which ended up being the beginning of a wild, high-speed car chase that became increasingly aggressive the longer it continued. Again and again their suspects tried to force them off the road, ramming them with their car, while recklessly swerving between lanes and blocking them whenever he accelerated in an attempt to pass by and cut them off.
After some time they approached a wooden bridge crossing a river, which seemed to be currently in the process of getting some restoration work done, or at least was being prepared for some impending maintenance, if the various warning signs were any indication. One would have thought that this would have compelled the driver of the fleeing car to at least marginally slow down. Or, perhaps, to at least switch tactics and just speed up in hopes of losing Weller behind them. Yet, on the contrary, the questionable state of the bridge only seemed to encourage them to drive more recklessly and try even harder to get rid of their FBI pursuers in a more permanent fashion than merely shaking them off their trail.
Given their targets' increasingly aggressive, at this point near incessant, attacks against them Weller found himself all but forced on the defensive by the time they reached the bridge, needing to stay focused on countering the driver's - he was fairly sure it was Ashcroft, the founder of the group - attempts to derail them, while at the same time he continued to try to go back on the offensive. The two cars starting to all but race across the bridge Weller gritted his teeth, white-knuckled hands gripping the steering wheel tighter as Ashcroft rammed their car again, seemingly even more forcefully than any previous time, keeping up the pressure against their car, metal groaning in protest, while Weller pushed back, steering against the force of the other car in an attempt to keep them at least somewhat in the lane.
It was then, while fending off their suspects' most brutal attempt to force them aside, that Weller vaguely noticed something in his peripheral vision; something up ahead in the road. Something they were approaching at high speed.
Next to him Jane cried out, "Weller! Watch out!" all but in the same instant as he registered this vague shape and he started to look up, chancing a glance at what was in front of them.
But even as the warning left Jane's lips, they already hit the pile of construction supplies and he could feel the car becoming airborne, starting to tilt sideways as it careened toward the railing of the bridge. A violent jolt ran through the car, throwing them around in their seats like ragdolls, and he heard Jane scream as they crashed through.
He must have blacked out at least briefly after that, since he never felt the car hitting the water, and as he opened his eyes the next time the car had already begun sinking, filling with water at a quickly accelerating pace. Weller blinked, a low groan escaping past his lips. "Jane?" he asked in a mutter, his thoughts, concern, immediately turning to his partner. But no answer came. He straightened up in his seat, groaning once more and reaching one hand up to his head as his skull seemed to explode with pain just as soon as he moved. However, for the moment he ignored the pain, after all, there were more pressing matters right now, such as making sure Jane was okay and them getting out of the car. Out of the freezing cold water.
He blinked a few more times, his vision still somewhat blurry but finally gradually clearing, as he turned to check on Jane, only to find her slumped forward in her seat. "Jane?" he spoke again, his voice now carrying more urgency, the growing concern he felt clearly evident at this point, especially when once again Jane didn't react, and a small part of him couldn't help but acknowledge that he hadn't really expected any different. Heart pounding in his chest Weller leaned over toward Jane, reaching his right hand out to her throat to check for a pulse, sitting there barely daring to breathe as it took him several moments to find a heartbeat. It was only once he had reassured himself Jane was still alive that he finally released the breath he had barely realized he had been holding. He then proceeded to lift one hand up to her face, gently turning her head to check for any visible injuries she might have suffered in the crash, finding her head bleeding profusely from a gash along the upper right side of her head, the wound partially obscured by her hair. "Jane." he repeated her name yet again, trying to rouse her back to consciousness as he studied her face for a few brief moments, his brows set in a worried frown. After a moment he turned his attention to the window beside her, realizing that this was in all probability where Jane must have hit her head, the traces of blood clear enough indication to underline this assumption, yet he was surprised - and admittedly even more concerned, upon seeing the glass was cracked, indicating just how great the force with which Jane's head had collided with the window must have been. However, only a moment later his frown deepened as he noticed the web of cracks in the glass growing, expanding ever faster, and he found himself with barely enough time to turn his head away to shield his face before the damaged window shattered, bursting into sharp slivers of glass that flew into the car like shrapnel, no longer able to withstand the surrounding pressure.
"Damn it!" Weller cursed under his breath as he looked up, seeing the water now freely flooding inside through the shattered window, the waterline, which had already reached up to his chest when he had regained consciousness, now rapidly rising past his shoulders within seconds. Clearly, they were out of time, another minute or two - hell, hardly that long! - and the car would be completely filled with water, which meant they would be out of air within a few minutes, and with Jane still unconscious... They really had to get out of there! With all this in mind Weller didn't even bother wasting any time with some futile attempt to get the door on his side open, knowing the water pressure on the other side would make that near impossible. So, instead, he drew his gun, aiming at the windshield and pulling the trigger several times in quick succession, leaving a bunch of holes in the already damaged glass. Yet, contrary to what action movies liked their audiences to think; the windshield didn't outright burst into bits and pieces. That Hollywood cliché might hold true for some decades-old junker, but not for an all but new modern SUV, certainly not for a government-issued vehicle used by the FBI. No, getting out of the death trap this car had become, would require more than a few bullets shot through the windshield. The water by now starting to inch past his chin, Weller quickly holstered his weapon, before he shifted as best as he could in his seat, pulling his legs out from the foot space and lifting them towards the dashboard, the whole exercise quite awkward with his movements constrained by the confined space they were trapped in, but that couldn't be helped right now. Granted, he could've first moved the seat back, but that would have only taken up more time that they didn't have to spare, and at any rate having the back of the seat behind him as support would give him more leverage and make it easier to use greater force as he then stomped his feet against the windshield to either break it or force it out of its frame altogether. Still. it took several forceful kicks before the glass finally budged. Weller gave the glass pane another kick, dislodging it for good, quickly turning his head away and pulling back as more water came rushing in now that the windshield was gone. With the water rapidly replacing what little air they still had left, Weller didn't waste any time; keeping his head close to the car's roof where there was still some air left, he already moved closer to Jane - who was still slumped limply in her seat, head now underwater - as he took one more deep breath before taking hold of her, pulling her with him out through the opening where the windshield used to be and swimming to the surface.
His head breaking through the surface Weller gasped for air, taking several deep breaths, before taking a glance around, trying to regain a sense of orientation and determine which direction the shore was. He then started swimming again, one arm still securely wrapped around Jane, making sure her head remained above the waterline. Upon reaching the riverbank Weller pulled himself out of the water and then pulled Jane out as well, resting her carefully on the ground. Kneeling beside Jane's motionless body he looked her over, once again noting the blood trailing along the side of her face with no indication that the bleeding would subside anytime soon. Yet, although initially his focus was on her head wound, within seconds he became distracted, realizing something else was wrong with her.
Jane wasn't breathing.
"Jane!" he called out to her, even though he knew it was highly unlikely she would hear, as he reached one hand out to her throat to check for a pulse, hoping to God he'd find one. Still, even when he did find one after a few, seemingly endless, moments Weller didn't relax, considering that, although thankfully Jane's heart was still beating, her pulse was very weak at this point, indicating her body was starting to shut down - whether that was from hypothermia due to having been in the freezing cold water or from the lack of oxygen he wasn't sure, and right now he couldn't say he cared about the how and why. Either way, it was bad.
He repeated her name yet again as he leaned over Jane, swiftly starting to give CPR, not allowing himself to even think about what he'd do if she were to die. If he couldn't save her. Once he'd established a rhythm of chest compressions he halted briefly, reaching his hands up to Jane's face, gently tilting her head back before parting her lips and leaning down to blow a gust of breath into her, then resumed with compressions, steadily, efficiently, repeating the process. Again and again, refusing to give up. "Come on, Jane! Breathe!" he muttered through gritted teeth, his voice demanding, while also laced with just the faintest hint of the desperation rising within him at the thought he could lose her.
His focus entirely on getting Jane to start breathing again, Weller lost all sense of time, paying no mind to the freezing cold air around him, the pounding aching in his head, nor to the slowly intensifying burn of exhaustion in his arms from the rigorous effort he was putting into saving Jane's life. For all he knew, it could have been mere minutes or in fact actual hours when suddenly Jane gasped for air, coughing up water, her eyes flying open. "Jane!" he half exclaimed, half whispered, the relief resonating clearly in his voice adding a silent 'thank God' to that one word he managed to get past his lips. His brows knitted into a frown as, almost as soon as she came to, Jane tried to sit up, seeming to be in a state of panic, her body shaking violently as she continued to cough up water. "Easy, Jane," he told her, reaching out to both stop her from moving as well as to steady her, "You hit your head pretty bad, so you shouldn't move any more than necessary."
Weller might have said more, he might have tried to calm Jane down as he could tell how agitated she was - and, really, who could blame her, aside from being in a nasty car crash she had just almost drowned - however, just as he was about to speak again, a faint, yet steady noise caught his attention. It took him several moments to place the sound, and when he did he couldn't help wondering how he hadn't noticed it before, atlthough, then again, he had been so focused on Jane, it was hardly surprising that he had been oblivious to everything and anything else. Including the com-link still dangling from his shoulder, which was from where the noise was emitting.
His eyes still fixed on Jane he reached for the earpiece, putting it back in, and just as soon as he did, he already heard Patterson's exasperated voice in his ear, "Weller? Jane? Do either of you copy!?"
"Patterson, it's Weller," he answered, hoping his response would in fact get through, as there was a slim possibility their coms had been damaged during the crash, or more likely due to the water exposure, and clearly, with both of them injured, stranded in the middle of nowhere, they certainly needed help. And quickly at that, as in their drenched clothes and with the freezing temperatures, it was just a question of time before they would end up with severe hypothermia on top of their injuries, if they hadn't already. "There was an accident. Ashcroft and his partners ran us off a bridge." Weller added, although, he was pretty sure that Patterson knew that much already, as they had kept the line open, meaning that any noise the coms picked up could be heard back at headquarters, and therefore Patterson had probably heard the crash.
Yet, before he could even quite finish speaking - let alone say anything else, Patterson interrupted, "I heard!" confirming his assumption, her voice still frantic with concern, although she seemed just a hint more collected now that she had gotten an actual response from them. She then wanted to know, "Are you guys okay!?"
"We'll live." Weller answered the blonde tech's question, frowning as he looked at Jane, his gaze once again lingering on her head wound, "Though, we're going to need medical assistance. Jane has a head wound that looks quite serious."
"Already on it." Patterson assured him, before adding, "Reade and Zapata are also already en route to your last known location. I sent them to find you right after I heard the crash, so they should be with you any minute now."
At what Patterson said Weller nodded to himself, which he, however, almost instantly regretted doing as pain shot through his skull at the movement, causing him to cringe slightly although he didn't allow any sound to pass his lips. Instead he told Patterson, "Good. In the meantime, put out a BOLO and APB for Ashcroft, Warner and Sanchez. They were driving a dark blue, recent model Volvo SUV that would now have notable damage to the front and its sides." Of course, in all likelihood by now they had already ditched that car and found some new ride, but even if they had, finding their own car could help them track their movements, narrowing down what vehicle they might be using now, and apprehend them.
"Again; already on it, Weller." Patterson pointed out in response, her voice laced with just the faintest twinge of impatience at the notion that he seemed to feel a need to tell her how to do her job.
"Course you are." Weller conceded, just the smallest hint of an amused smile crossing his features for the briefest second. After all, he should have expected Patterson's reaction. The woman was one of the most competent people he had ever worked with, so, really, there was no need to spell out to her what she should do, and he knew that. But, he had never liked being on the sidelines, particular where his work was concerned, and at any rate, even if it was ultimately unnecessary, ensuring that the search for their suspects was well underway at least gave him the illusion of getting something done while waiting for his colleagues to get there. ... And some paramedics that was, he acknowledged to himself as he cast a worried look at Jane. "Hopefully, we'll be back at the office shortly. In the meantime, keep me updated." he added after a moment, knowing that, again, it was rather reduntant to voice the command.
Just as soon as Patterson had acknowledged what he had told her Weller turned his full attention back to Jane. Although she was thankfully still conscious, and seemed to have calmed down since she had come to, she did seem kind of out of it, and frowning in concern, he couldn't help but ask, "Jane, how are you holding up?"
...
Shaking himself out of his reverie Weller downed the rest of his drink in one gulp. He set the glass carelessly aside before running his hands over his face, a heavy sigh escaping him as he then leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and buried his face in his hands. For several long minutes he simply sat there, trying to keep his thoughts from drifting into unwanted directions all over again. But, just as it had all night, all his best attempts proved futile and before long his mind once again began to wander, filling with thoughts of the day laying behind him, the memories eliciting another deep sigh from him. Because, as if being run off a bridge and damn near drowning hadn't been bad enough, that hadn't even been the worst part of his day. Sighing once more, he dropped his hands and reached for the half-empty bottle standing on the coffee table, pouring himself another glass.
After getting checked out and cleared by the paramedics - although, the latter only with considerable reluctance on the EMTs' part, especially in regards to Jane, whose head had needed about a dozen stitches - the two of them had headed back to the office with the rest of the team to regroup. Luckily, it hadn't taken too long after their return to New York for the APB and BOLO to get results, and soon thereafter the three leaders of the eco-terrorists had been brought in for interrogation. It had, however, taken quite some time and effort to convince Ashcroft, Warner and Sanchez to turn against their criminal associates; including their suppliers of weapons and explosives who, at this point, were more of a priority to arrest.
Intending to shut down the entire criminal network this case had unveiled, they spent most of the noon and early afternoon organizing a vast number of raids, coordinating with field offices up and down the East Coast - some even all the way across the country, so they could strike all the targets at once.
Finally, once all the preparations were taken care of, Weller and his team headed out to the warehouse district adjacent to Brooklyn's Marine Terminal, where they met up with a SWAT team. They parked a little ways away from the actual warehouse used by the arms smugglers they were after, not wanting to tip them off. After going over the details of the impending raid with the SWAT leader and giving them the go-ahead to get in position, Weller checked in with Patterson, who had the leaders of the various other teams that would handle other raids on stand-by, to get their status. Once she had assured him that everything was set he gave the go for the operation. Having taken his team along with several other agents, including SWAT members, to take up position at the main entrance of the warehouse, they breached the building, two other groups of agents simultaneously doing the same at the other two entrances. As expected, unlike earlier that day, this time they were met with resistance. Fierce resistance, in fact, which, however, came as no surprise considering that these people were in the business of smuggling and selling heavy arms. Within seconds of them storming the warehouse bullets seemed to fly every which way, the air filled with the constant staccato of gunfire. Still, slowly they advanced farther inside, splitting up to cover more ground, and taking out a couple of the targets as they went.
Ducking behind a large crate for cover he took a brief glance around at what he could see from his current position, and noticed two of the smugglers running up a metal staircase to a walkway that led to the roof, presumably hoping to escape over the roof as the neighboring buildings to either side were close enough to reach from there. "Jane!" he called out, motioning to the two fleeing men. Seeing the ravenhead give a brief nod in acknowledgement he made sure they were in the clear and then proceeded to go after them, knowing Jane would be right behind him to cover him.
Upon reaching the door leading out onto the roof Weller stopped momentarily, waiting for Jane to reach him. When she did, he looked at her, exchanging a glance with her to make sure she was prepared for whatever was on the other side of the door, and as she nodded in confirmation he slowly pushed the door open, gun at the ready.
They had barely made it through the door when gunshots rang out across the roof, forcing them to quickly take cover even before they'd really had any time to actually take a proper look around and assess their surroundings. "FBI! Drop your weapons!" he shouted out from where he had taken cover behind the casing of one of the air conditioning fans. Admittedly he had no illusions that the two men they had followed up here would in fact comply given their line of work and all, but procedure dictated he at least tried.
Without moving away from his cover he took a swift yet thorough glance around, taking in what he could see of his surroundings from his current position. His gaze halted on Jane, who had taken cover several feet away from him, making sure she was alright. Weller could see her preparing to move, prompting him to give a cautioning shake of his head, even though he had his doubts it would be enough to stop her. After all, already since her first day in the field with them Jane had eagerly confronted any of their suspects, particularly by engaging them physically. Still, realizing that Jane was about to move, he once more shook his head, the movement more insistent this time, as he mouthed to his partner not to do it. But Jane moved anyways, going after one of the two arms traffickers on the roof. His first impulse was to follow after her, to cover her, however, as soon as he tried to move new shots rang out as he found himself in the crosshairs of the other gunman, forcing him to stay where he was.
At the periphery of his vision he could see that Jane was now caught in a fierce hand-to-hand fight with one of the arms traffickers. Despite knowing that Jane could handle herself even when taking on someone twice her size, his instincts told him to rush to her aid, but he found himself still pinned down at his current position by that other trafficker.
He had just ducked back behind his cover, after getting off two more shots at his opponent, when he heard a scream. Instinctually he knew the sound had come from Jane, causing him to chance a glance back into her direction. Only to find Jane gone, the man she had been trading blows with just moments earlier standing at the edge of the roof, glaring down at what was below. And, for one horrible, endless moment, he could swear his heart had stopped, his lungs refusing to work, paralyzed with the horror brought on by the implications of that image. That was until he saw the other man aiming his gun downward, indicating that contrary to his fears Jane hadn't been pushed to her death. Somehow she had managed to save herself, to grasp the ledge now above her and hang on. Yet, within another second or two none of that would matter anymore if he didn't do something to intervene, if he couldn't prevent her would-be assailant from shooting her. He had to do something, and he had to do it fast!
He knew his only real option to save Jane was to take out the man who was about to kill her. However, the problem with doing so was that his current vantage point was absolutely terrible; although he could see the man well enough, he had no actual clear shot. And if he missed - if he didn't outright kill the guy - he could still get off a shot to kill Jane. Not to mention that there was still that other gunman who had him in his sights, being undoubtedly able to shoot him if he left his current, covered position. But there was no other option; either he took the risk and saved Jane, or he stayed where he was and she died. He didn't have the luxury of time to overthink this or weigh the risks, his chances. So, he made a split second decision. Closing his eyes for the briefest of moments he took a calm, steadying breath then darted out from behind the AC casing, gun at the ready. He aimed and fired, double-tapping the shooter that had kept him in check, squarely hitting him in the chest. Without sparing the time to watch him crumble to the ground he continued moving at a brisk pace towards where the other shooter - and Jane - were. Alerted by the shots the other man had looked up and turned in his direction. His gun aimed at the man he shouted, "Drop the gun!" and when the guy didn't give any indication he would do so, instead lifting his gun his way, he himself pulled the trigger again. Hit right in the area of the heart the man collapsed.
"Jane! Hang on!" he called out, as he made his way over to the guy he had just taken out, making sure he was in fact dead and kicking the man's gun way out of reach for good measure, before he then made his way over to the ledge of the roof in quick, long strides. As he went Weller swiftly holstered his weapon so his hands would be free. He had barely reached the ledge when he heard Jane calling his name, her voice giving away the strain she was under, and his gaze darting instantly down to her he saw her grip slipping.
He reacted instinctively, reaching out just in time to grab her by her wrists, prompting her to lift her head, her eyes wide, though he wasn't sure whether with surprise or with fear. "I got you, Jane." he assured her, as he promptly started to pull her up. Yet, it was only once Jane was safely standing beside him that he dared to breathe a low sigh of relief. As he studied her, neither of them saying anything, he didn't miss the faint tremors coursing through her body, nor the first signs of fresh bruises already forming upon her pale white and ink black skin.
But at least she was alive.
A heavy sigh escaped past Weller's lips, once again forcing the memories away as he poured himself another glass of bourbon. Once again he reminded himself that they had been lucky, that today could have turned out much worse than it had. Sure, they had both suffered concussions, hypothermia, not to mention a vast assortment of nasty bruises to serve as visual reminders for the days - and possibly for a week or two, to come. But, in the greater scheme of things, they would be fine. Jane would be fine. Yet, as so often these days, this thought did little to nothing to ease his mind. Because he was all too aware just how close of a call today had been, that once again he had come within seconds of losing Jane. Which really was the thing that kept haunting him these days, keeping him awake at night. The possibility of losing her.
It wasn't that he minded putting himself, his life, on the line for the greater good. After all, he had been fully aware of what he was signing up for when he had joined the Bureau. He had been fully aware that the job came with the risk of dying, that getting shot at and facing other potentially deadly situations were part of the job description. All of them knew that, were aware of the risks, even Jane, who had nonetheless insisted to come into the field with the team. But the problem was, lately it seemed every single day in the field, every single case they worked on, turned into a gamble with their lives, like a neverending game of Russian roulette with the stakes increasingly stacked against them. It seemed as if shootouts involving assault rifles or things getting blown up in their closest proximity was on track to become the new normal. Not to mention them recently having faced the very real risk of being exposed to lethal pathogens that had no known cure on one case, as well as risking exposure to radioactive materials on another case merely a day later; both of which were a whole new kind of work hazards he sure as hell could do without. Because all of this, all this constant danger, the increasingly high risks they had to take to get the job done, only served to drive home the fact that, in the end, he simply wouldn't be able to protect everyone all the time. Their recent cases served as too stark a reminder that chances were, one of these days luck would run out on them and one of them wouldn't make it out of one of these life-and-death situations alive.
So, really, all things considered, who could actually blame him for having lost it the other night, who could blame him for snapping at Sarah? Given all this constant danger he faced day in and day out, all this pressure - not to mention the emotional turmoil haunting him ever since Jane had entered his life, it really was no wonder that he was all but a mess, caught in a near constant state of agitation.
And it sure as hell didn't help his recent state of mind that everyone around him seemed to feel compelled to weigh in on how he was handling things, and perhaps more annoyingly; seeming to feel entitled to question his approach of dealing with the entire investigation into Jane's tattoos. Not to mention, questioning how he was dealing with Jane herself.
"Feels like you're a little close to this one." Reade's words echoed through his mind, along with his own response of reiterating that he was fine. Only for his colleague to dismiss his claim, "No, you're not. Not when it comes to Jane."
Zapata's observations while they had been out in the woods, after they had found Saúl Guerrero and were trying to distract his militia goons, "You're protecting her. She's more than just an FBI asset to you. It's one thing if you won't admit it. It's something else, if you don't even know it."
Mayfair confronting him about having Jane over for dinner; questioning his objectivity, his judgement. "How worried do I have to be about your objectivity on this case? Normally, your judgement is above reproach. But with her..." Perhaps, worse still, insinuating she would pull him off the case because of his apparent attachment to Jane.
It seemed they all just had to put their two cents in, whether they were asked for their opinion or not. Whether they were right or not. Hell, even Allie'd had to call him out the other night regarding Jane, asking him point blank what was going on between the two of them.
"What's the deal with you and Jane?" Allie asked, tone matter-of-fact, perhaps laced with the faintest hint of curiosity, as she looked at him, brows furrowed into a miniscule frown, "I mean, that is why you were acting weird this morning, right?" she paused for the briefest moment before adding, "You know, I'm not asking for some big committment here or anything, but I also don't wanna play proxy to the woman you really want."
Holding back a sigh, he frowned as well, giving a slight shake of his head, "No, Allie. That's not what this is about. Jane and I... we're friends, that's all."
"Come on, Kurt, I see the way you are about her, your first concern always being Jane... Hell, I've seen the way you look at her. I've never seen you look at any other woman that way, you sure never looked at me that way." There was no outrage, no accusation, nor judgement in her voice, her expression. Her words just a statement - even if, perhaps, voiced in a somewhat blunt fashion. An observation made in that usual no-nonsense way Allie had about her.
He thought about denying her assessment, thought about arguing his point that he and Jane were just friends. He could try to explain to her why Jane was so important to him, why he cared so much, was so protective of her. But then he didn't, knowing there was no real point. In all likelihood anything he were to say to try and explain it, would only reaffirm Allie's assumptions, if not actual suspicions about his relationship with Jane... So, instead he simply gave a miniscule nod, not so much in agreement or confirmation of what Allie had said, but simply acknowledging her point of view on this matter. A beat or two of silence passed between them, then they parted ways.
And that had been that, the matter of them rekindling their previous relationship effectively moot. Which, Weller supposed, was probably for the best anyhow, because, although they had a whole lot of fun together, they also somehow managed to bring out an abundance of bad habits in each other.
Deep down he knew he couldn't really deny that they did have a point, all of them. There was something between Jane and him, something that had been there from the very beginning. Something that had made it impossible for him to look at her as just an asset, a colleague. Even before it had ever occured to him that Jane could be Taylor. From the moment he had first come really face to face with her, had spoken to her, there just seemed to have been this instant connection he felt to her. Genuine concern. Compassion. Perhaps, affection even. At first, he had shrugged it off as a sense of obligation, of responsibility, perhaps due to being the lead agent on her case. Or, maybe, it had something to do with his name being emblazoned upon her back in big bold letters which made him feel responsible, care for her. Either way, it had been confusing, as normally he had no problem to remain detached from the people he met in the course of any investigation. Yet, where Jane was concerned he had found himself instantly and entirely attached, had instantly found himself caring beyond just solving the case. Whether he had wanted to acknowledge it - the true extent of this attachment, or not.
So, yes, maybe they were right. He probably did care too much about Jane. Maybe his attachment to her, his feelings - whatever they were, were detrimental to the case, to his work. To the team. They all depended on him, after all. He was the one in charge. He knew he couldn't permit his emotions to cloud his judgement. That doing so could get people killed. Which was precisely the reason why, usually - under normal circumstances, he did his best to maintain his distance, to remain detached while on the job and generally was quite successful - some might even argue too successful - in doing so. Because he knew he couldn't afford letting feelings or personal attachments get in the way. That as the team leader - unit leader, he had to remain level-headed not only so he could be effective in his job, but so that he could make the right calls and avoid unnecessary casualties. So he could keep his team, the people he was responsible for, safe. More importantly, he had to keep a certain level of distance, of detachment, so that if and when things went wrong on a case, he could continue functioning and get the job done regardless. Over his years with the FBI he had lost a number of people - colleagues and friends, as well as civilians that had the misfortune of getting caught in the middle. Which was something that, despite his notable ability for compartmentalisation, still hit him hard every time, especially since his promotion to Supervisory Special Agent, given the added sense of responsibility that came with being in charge. But, thanks to his ability to usually keep his personal thoughts and feelings separate from his work, he generally managed to cope with the losses, the sacrifices that came with the job. And deep down he knew that, if push came to shove and one of his immediate colleagues - Zapata, Reade, Mayfair, even Patterson who wasn't even an actual field agent, ended up being hurt or even killed in the line of duty, he would somehow manage to keep himself together. At least until getting the job done and catching whoever was responsible. Granted, eventually, once there was nothing to keep him focused and occupied, it would hit him like a freight train - the grief and guilt. He would second-guess himself, his every action and decision during whatever investigation that might have resulted in them being harmed, killed. But with time he would be able to, perhaps not accept it, but at least cope with it.
But when it came to Jane? Therein lay the rub, the whole crux of the problem. Because he knew that if anything were to happen to Jane it would outright devastate him. Especially as he had already lost her - Taylor, once before, a circumstance that had haunted him his whole life. The mere thought of her dying, of even the possibility of losing her, was enough to paralyze him with a sense of horror, with sheer panic.
Which, Weller supposed, was precisely the reason why, after the events of the day, he was once again spending his night wide awake like an insomniac, instead of getting some much needed rest. It undoubtedly was the reason why he was sitting there in his living room, drinking, trying his best to just stop thinking about how close he once again had come to losing Jane - and miserably failing in his attempts to shut off the memories, the worry and outright fear nagging at the back of his mind.
Sighing deeply in resignation Weller downed the remnants of bourbon from his glass, reaching once again towards the bottle for another refill before he remembered that he had already emptied it. He momentarily considered to get a new bottle of liquor, or perhaps simply some beer from the kitchen, but then decided firmly against it. Not least because it always filled him with a sense of unease when he found himself drinking outside of a social setting, just in hopes of silencing - drowning out, whatever was bothering him. The whole thing hitting just too close to home due to his father, who was just one example as to why turning to alcohol to escape one's problems only served to make matters worse. A fact further proven true time and again during his career with the FBI. Besides, Sarah was already worried enough about him as it was, given his outburst only a few nights earlier. He sure as hell didn't need to give her another reason to add to her concerns by drinking himself into a total stupor. And at any rate, between his head injury and the growing probability of yet again not getting any sleep, the last thing he needed was a major hangover on top of everything else.
Nonetheless he abruptly rose to his feet only a moment later. Yet, instead of making his way into the kitchen area, he then headed for the door, grabbing his jacket and keys as he went, the sense of restlessness - the need to just get out, to move, becoming too strong as to ignore any longer.
Getting some fresh air would do him good. Perhaps it might even allow him to, at least somewhat, clear his head. Either way, it sure beat being cooped up in his apartment, equally incapable of sleeping as he was of shutting out his troubles, and pulling the door firmly shut behind him he just started walking, neither caring nor paying any attention as to where the hell he was going.
Author's Notes: Thanks for reading! Feedback would be much appreciated, especially as this is my first "Blindspot" story. :)
Oh, and as you may have already guessed, in keeping things true to the series, I scrambled the real title into an anagram, so have fun decoding it! (Though, admittedly, at this point I actually like the official title more than the original - it just has more of a ring to it. :D