Preface: A crack fic of sorts for your reading pleasure, hopefully it will make you laugh. x)
Drive
"So how exactly is Jane supposed to drive, y'know, without a license?" Reade swivels in the rolling chair at his desk, paper football poised to kick.
"I think Kurt said something about logging enough driving hours and the state will issue her one," Tash shrugs. Her desk is directly in front of his, and she's got a makeshift goalpost built out of half-empty water bottles and ball point pens. She yawns melodramatically while Reade eyeballs his aim, and when he ignores her she throws a paper clip at him, "you gunna punt or what?"
Tash's aim is never off, so Reade ducks out of habit, the paper clip sailing past his head. He scowls at her, and repositions the paper football, purposefully taking his time to illicit an irritated groan from the woman who's been terrorizing him for the last half hour. Next time Kurt asks him to come in on a Saturday to do paperwork with Zapata, he's going to have to get on his knees and beg.
He finally flicks the paper football with his index finger. They both watch it miss the goalpost by a mile. Tash makes another dash on a scrap piece of paper with a snort, bobbing her head from side to side in smug satisfaction as she does it.
Tasha: IIIIII
Reade: I
"What do you think they're doing?" Reade asks, for an instant genuinely curious, leaning back in his chair.
"You mean besides each other?" Tash retorts, eyebrows raised as she stands to retrieve the paper football from where it landed on the floor.
Reade chokes on the air he's breathing.
"Hold up—" He tries not to gag, which is a lot harder than it looks, "—what?"
"C'mon, captain obvious, they've been together for weeks," Tash perches on the edge of his desk, chunking the paper football at his chest, "don't tell me you haven't seen the way Weller looks at her. And anytime I've caught either of them staring, they're practically undressing each other with their eyes."
"There's no way…" Reade considers it, shakes his head, doesn't want to believe, "surely they're not—" he screws his face up at the image Tash just put in his head, and refuses to put it into words.
"My guess?" Tash taps her fingers across Reade's desk, "they've been together since the Russian spy shitstorm. Maybe before that."
"You're insane." Reade points a finger at her. Sure, Weller was in over his head, but surely not that in over his head. Right?
"Am I?" Tash hedges, "Twenty bucks they're not just reading diagrams and reteaching her how to use turning signals."
Reade narrows his eyes at that. It's not the fact that she's insinuating Jane and Weller are sleeping together that has his attention right now, but the fact that she's taunting him. He knows a challenge when he hears one. And even though he's (usually) too noble to stoop to this kind of bait and switch from her, it's just tempting enough that he caves.
"Twenty bucks Kurt's got better self control than that," Reade amends, "and loser buys dinner."
Tasha throws back her head and laughs.
"You're on," she grins, eyes gleaming, "and it sucks for you, because I'm not gunna settle for twenty-cent wings when I win."
She balances the paper football on her thigh from where she sits, and with a flick of her finger she sends it sailing straight through the goalpost on her desk.
Kurt initially told himself this would be a good idea, that helping Jane log her driving hours would be a good way to spend time together outside of work, while he's just being Kurt, and not Special Objective Agent Weller. Except right now, sitting in the passenger seat next to her, counting the number of times he's feared for his life in the past hour, he's not so sure his plan is that great after all.
His new title, he decides, is Drill Sergeant Weller, "You have to brake—brake!" To think he could have been doing paperwork right now, or even pulling his own teeth, would have been preferable to the death trap he strapped himself into the moment he put Jane behind the wheel.
Sure, maybe he's exaggerating when he says she's going to get him killed, but it wouldn't be the first time. She's already cut someone off, ran a stop sign, and a light…
The current obstacle she's trying to overcome are yield signs. Which shouldn't surprise him, because she doesn't know how to yield in normal, everyday life either. Or ever, under any circumstance, if he really thinks about it.
"Jane, you have to yield when there's a yield sign." Kurt has to resist the urge to clench his jaw and close his eyes, or to cuss. The latter he hasn't entirely been able to control. And by entirely he means not at all.
"Sorry," she frowns, teeth gritted. That one word has been her anthem for the entirety of their day together.
Of course Kurt immediately regrets every time he corrects her with more force than necessary, because he knows it eats her up, not being able to master a given task immediately. Failure isn't something Jane tolerates very well, and the fact that she's having a difficult time with the basic concept of driving a vehicle has her wound like a top. Her jaw is tight, and so are her shoulders, and she keeps readjusting her hands over and over again on the steering wheel. She's uncomfortable, and she's mad.
If there's one consolation, Kurt thinks, it's that he enjoys watching her now, when she's pissed, just as much as he does when he's standing behind her at the shooting range, or when she's sitting at her desk and doesn't notice he's staring, or when she's on her back in his bed…
"Kurt?" Jane shoots him an annoyed sideways glance, "Which way do we go next?"
Christ. Focus, Weller.
They hadn't told anyone that they were together, not yet, because there were so many variables involved and their situation was complicated—is complicated—enough as it is. Of course that wouldn't last very long if he couldn't pull his own head out of his ass long enough to wipe the drool off his face every time he was around her. Kurt takes a breath, reals himself back in, and swears that the rest of this drive will be nothing but professional.
"Stop at the stop sign," he directs, pointing ahead, "and then take a left back onto the highway."
She blanches at that, turns visibly pale. After the first few days navigating the parking garage of the Hoover Building, Kurt had driven them out to a less crowded, more empty part of Staten Island for their driving lesson, somewhere she was less likely to run into anything, and more importantly anyone. They spent most of the day at the park beneath the Verrazano Bridge, close to the water, before venturing out onto the actual road. It's obvious now that the idea of being the one responsible for delivering them safely back to the land of the living isn't something she's prepared for.
"Are you sure that's a good idea?" She asks as they roll to a not so subtle stop at the stop sign. Kurt winces, because every time she hits the breaks it's with a lead foot, and he already knows his back will make him pay for it in the morning.
"High speed chases on a whim, helicopters, no problem," Kurt peers at her, amused and biting back a chuckle, eyes bright and taunting, "Domestic equivalent of a Sunday stroll? She chokes. What gives, huh?"
The resounding glare she gives him is nothing short of murderous.
"You're an ass." She mutters, checking both directions before easing the SUV out onto the road.
"Never claimed not to be." He grins, head tilted, and he shouldn't laugh (because she's right) but he does anyway. It's the look on her face that does it; he knows she'd like nothing more than to reach over and hit him, but that would require removing her hands from the steering wheel. Kurt knows that won't happen anytime soon, and that he's safe for now, because she's spent the majority of her time driving clinging to it for dear life.
"Can we just pull over, please?" Jane shoots him a withering look.
"You're doing fine," Kurt reassures her, and he feels a little guilty that she's obviously taking his joke to heart, when he'd only intended for it to be a lighthearted dig. "If you really want me too—"
But before he can get the words out, they're interrupted by the sudden sound of a siren and flashing lights in the rearview mirror.
"You've got to be kidding." If Kurt didn't think their outing was a bad idea before, he certainly does now.
"Do I pull over?" Jane squeaks, shrinking into her seat, eyes on the mirror and the cop car closing the distance behind them.
"Yeah," Kurt runs a hand over his face, sighing, "over there, onto the shoulder. How fast were you going?"
"I don't know!"
"Seriously Jane?"
That's it. Next time Reade can take her, or Tasha, or even Patterson, because Kurt's never doing this ever again.
"Wait," Jane says suddenly, eyes wide when she turns to Kurt, "is he going to give me a ticket?"
While Jane watches the state trooper in the rearview mirror as he steps out of his patrol car, Kurt digs for the insurance in the glove compartment, and fishes his wallet out of his back pocket.
The blatant fear in her voice makes him pause, and he fixes her with quizzical blue eyes. Jane Doe, who is proficient in hand to hand combat, who has tactical skills off the charts, fluent in a dozen different languages, who's killed people in self-defense, is absolutely mortified at the idea of a speeding ticket.
Kurt can't even pretend it's not funny, in fact after the last few hours of insanity it's probably the funniest thing he's heard, and when the state trooper finally walks up and taps on the passenger side window, Kurt is still laughing, much to Jane's chagrin. She glares at him balefully as he rolls down his window, quickly trying to sober up enough to maintain a straight face, something that's a lot harder to do than it sounds.
"Good afternoon," the trooper nods from behind his pitch black sunglasses, "license and insurance, please."
"Afternoon, sir," Kurt nods, handing him the insurance card, and then fishing his and Jane's id's out of his wallet, his license and her permit.
"You work for the federal bureau?" The trooper notes the vehicle information, somewhat with surprise. Kurt nods and resists the urge to fidget uncomfortably. The trooper then bends down and glances over at Jane, his voice somber, but not unkind, "Ma'am, do you know how fast you were going? Eighty-seven in a sixty-five."
Kurt bites his tongue, closing his eyes and kicking himself for not having paid attention, especially when he knew she was prone to leaning on the gas pedal. Jane takes a deep breath beside him. He waits for her to apologize, to conduct herself in a cordial, civilized manner as they'd talked about before if something like this were to happen. However, unbeknownst to Kurt until it's too late, Jane has other plans.
Before he realizes what she's doing, Jane's leaning over him, invading his space, her hand strategically placed in full view on the flat of his thigh, much higher up than it needed to be. Too high. She digs her fingers into his leg, flashing a disarming smile at the trooper just outside Kurt's window, who's watching everything. Meanwhile Kurt's trying to remember his name, the date, and how to breathe, because her damn hand—
"I'm so sorry officer," Jane apologizes with a breathy giggle, "I know it's no excuse, but we've been driving for hours. We spent the weekend in Norfolk, at his parents, and when you end up sleeping in the guest bedroom above theirs…" Jane laughs again, shrugging sheepishly, "well, you know."
Because her fingers are still burning holes into the leg of his jeans, it takes Kurt entirely too long to realize what she's insinuating.
"Oh," the trooper deadpans, clearing his throat, "well then—"
"Wait—" Kurt shakes his head, flustered, face red, "—it's not like that, we were just—I'm teaching her how to drive!"
"Right," the trooper nods, as if he were empathizing with him, and Kurt almost loses it when the son-of-a-bitch pats him on the arm, "we'll just go with that, son."
Jane finally removes her hand and settles back into her seat, smiling smugly, feeling satisfied with what she's done.
"I'll give you a warning this time, ma'am," the trooper scribbles on his ticket book, hands Kurt the piece of paper, "but next time…"
"There won't be a next time." Kurt replies, stone faced as he snatches the piece of paper. He's never been so sure of anything in his entire life.
"Have a great day!" Jane sings as the man in uniform makes his way back to his patrol car, and Kurt rolls up the window, smoldering in his seat. It isn't until the trooper is long gone, having disappeared around the next bend in the highway, that he turns to look at Jane.
"Really?" He groans, exhaling and throwing his head back against the seat.
"Karma's a bitch." Jane replies flatly, shit-eating grin firmly in place.
Tasha and Reade are in their 18th quarter of paper football when Jane and Kurt walk back into the squad room. Kurt makes a beeline for Reade's desk, where he comes to an abrupt halt and immediately drops the keys to the SUV in front of him. Jane saunters in behind him, suspiciously chipper.
"You're doing this next time, because I can't." Kurt states flatly, pointing at the keys.
"Bad day?" Read eyes Kurt skeptically, leaning back in his chair, trying to gauge where the sudden desperation is coming from.
Kurt doesn't respond at all. He's one fuse short of blowing up completely, and he'd really rather not do that here. Instead he turns on his heels and makes a second beeline toward the locker room, disappearing before anyone of them can say anything else to send him over the edge.
"So…" Tasha says, still watching the spot in the hall where Kurt vanished, "what the hell happened?"
Jane opens her mouth to say something, but then thinks better of it. She didn't need to give them anymore ideas than they were already capable of coming up with themselves.
"I'm going to go make sure he's ok." Jane excuses herself, following after Kurt, even though Tash throws her a clearly disappointed look as she leaves.
"I'm going to make you tell me later, whether you like it or not!" Tash calls after her. Jane turns around and raises her hands in a silent apology, a white flag of sorts to assure Tash that she can question her all she wants over drinks later, before disappearing around the same corner as Kurt.
Once they're both gone, Tash once again finds herself sitting on the edge of Reade's desk. Her arms are crossed, a knowing look on her face as she meets Reade's gaze over the top of his computer.
"I'm so winning this bet."
AN: This started out as a prompt from my best buddy over at Tumblr. It sort of snowballed from something short into what you see here, but I have zero regrets haha. I need to write more lighthearted stuff like this, to balance out the heavy. Anyways, hopefully y'all got a kick out of this as much as I did. Thanks for the inspiration, F.