Not all those who wander are lost.
Some do not yet know what they are searching for.
(Because I have to survive this hiatus somehow.)
"Is the tattoo lady your girlfriend?"
Having been moving on autopilot, completely lost in thought— thoughts of Jane, that kiss, her walking home alone, that kiss— the unexpected question caught Weller totally off-guard, making him falter mid-stride and almost miss the next step, only a hasty grab at the handrail preventing himself from planting face-first onto the stairway.
"Wha—" he choked, then shook his head at his nephew and hastily resumed his climb up the stairs. "No. Jane is not my girlfriend."
"But I thought only boyfriends and girlfriends could kiss," Sawyer persisted, soldiering determinedly up the stairs beside him, arms wrapped tightly around the paper grocery bag that was almost as big as he was.
Weller rubbed a hand over his forehead, holding back a sigh. This was really not a conversation he wanted to be having right now. "Not always. Sometimes people kiss for different reasons, like when they want to become boyfriend and girlfriend."
"So that's why you were kissing?"
He almost groaned. "That's— that's not what I meant," he corrected firmly, then increased his pace, irrationally relieved that the landing for their floor was only a few steps away. As they finally reached it— thankfully without further interrogation from Sawyer— he took a deep breath and halted, turning to face the boy.
"Hey, kiddo," he said gently, crouching so that they were eye-to-eye, "Do you think we could maybe keep the kissing a secret between us for now? Grown-ups have a rule that says a gentleman doesn't kiss and tell, especially when telling people might make their girlfriend upset."
"But I thought you said she wasn't your girlfriend," Sawyer pointed out, frowning slightly at the contradiction.
"I know I did. But she might be, one day, okay? So what do you say, bud— can we keep this just between us?"
Sawyer nodded vigorously, his thick curls bouncing, before one small hand released the grocery bag to stick out into the air between them, pinky finger extended. Smiling, Weller curled his pinky around his nephew's and squeezed, then stood, ruffling the boy's hair.
"Good man. Now, let's get these groceries inside before your mom comes searching for us."
As they exited the stairwell and moved together down the hall, Weller found his thoughts automatically shifting back to their earlier focus, as if his mind had suddenly lost the ability to think about anything else.
He tried to tell himself that he was he was just worried about her walking home alone in the dark, that his brain's current preoccupation with her was purely a product of professional concern— but that was bullshit, and he knew it.
Of course, he was genuinely concerned, but there was nothing professional about it. Instead, it was something primal and instinctive and almost possessive; something that had awoken within him the moment she'd first touched him in that interrogation room just months ago, and had only ever grown stronger and more all-consuming every day since, until he could no longer even remember who he'd been before it.
And then tonight, she'd kissed him, had held him close and breathed the word 'us'— like they already were an 'us' and they'd just forgotten to do anything about it until now— and that part of him had simply exploded, no longer contained by his carefully-set boundaries but instead spreading rapidly outward from his chest until it had encompassed every single cell in his body, filling him, taking him over.
Somewhere, a tiny part of him had known— and still knew— all the reasons why this, them, was wrong. She'd snuck out of an FBI-guarded safe house and walked fourteen blocks alone in the dark— defying countless rules and orders— just to have the chance to see him, to have a single moment that was theirs alone. That tiny, logical part of him knew he should be appalled at the risk she'd taken, angry for the blatant disregard for her own safety, but…
But she'd kissed him like she'd been lost and had finally found home.
And when she had, he'd realised that she wasn't the only one.
Suddenly noticing that they'd almost reached his apartment, Weller fumbled in his pocket for his keys, then unlocked the door and held it for Sawyer, who— despite the slight tremble in his thin arms— was still gripping the bag tightly, looking proud to have carried it the entire way. As the boy swiftly disappeared into the kitchen, Weller found himself hesitating, looking down at the keys still clutched in his hand.
"Sarah, I've got to step out for a bit," he called suddenly, then immediately turned back the way he'd come, already pulling the door half-shut behind him. "If I'm not back when dinner's ready, just eat without me."
"What?" he heard her respond, surprise and confusion in her voice. "Where are you going?"
But he was already gone.
He took the stairs at a jog, trying to tell himself that what he was doing was probably completely unnecessary, and that Jane would likely think him overbearing for coming after her; but even as he did so, he could feel the primal part of him growing harder to ignore, a prickle of unease lodging in his chest.
After all his years with the FBI, he always trusted his instincts— and right now, every single one of them was telling him that he needed to find Jane.
When he reached the ground floor, he was thankful for once that Sarah had laid claim to his parking spot in the garage and forced him out onto the street; it allowed him to step out the front door and slip right into his car, saving him a couple of precious minutes. Pulling away from the curb, he headed in the direction Jane had gone, taking the route that seemed most logical for a person on foot. But then, in his experience, Jane and logic didn't always go hand-in-hand— rarely did, in fact— so he had no certainty of choosing the right way, his every decision a gamble that could cost him everything.
Tapping his fingers on the wheel, he scanned the street ahead as he drove, trying fruitlessly to quell his rising apprehension, the prickle in his chest growing sharper and more insistent with every minute.
He should have never let her walk off into the night alone.
The old Weller never would have. The old Weller always put rules and protocols first, ever the logical, rational professional.
But the new Weller, Jane's Weller, could be completely distracted by even a simple look or touch from her— or, as he'd discovered tonight, utterly derailed by a kiss— his world no longer held neatly in his control, but instead shifting and expanding until he was no longer sure that work was at its centre anymore.
Something told him its centre had fixed on something else entirely.
Or someone.
He was still trying to banish that thought when he spotted a pair of headlights up ahead, a stationary white van coming into view just moments before his eyes registered the struggle taking place beside it, understanding dawning on him in a matter of milliseconds.
And then instinct took over; his foot instantly rammed the accelerator, his arms wrenching the wheel as he swung his car across both lanes, rocketing towards the van before screeching to a halt almost nose-to-nose with its front bumper. There was no time to go for the gun in his glovebox; instead he simply burst from the car and rushed at the nearest of the three black-clad figures that surrounded Jane, not even noticing the infuriated roar that ripped from his throat as he grabbed the man and threw him bodily into a metal fence with every ounce of strength he possessed, sparing barely a glance for the attacker's slumped, motionless form before turning towards his next target, angrily advancing on the second man while Jane grappled with the third.
Dodging a flurry of punches and kicks from the smaller man, Weller found a gap in his defenses and launched an attack of his own, sinking a fist into the man's gut before directing the next at his face, feeling the crack of bone— his or his opponent's, he didn't know or care— as it connected with the man's jaw. The assailant crumpled instantly, lying as still as his teammate as Weller spun, seeking out the last threat.
And found him fighting for his life.
Trading blow for blow with Jane, the man was clearly skilled, highly trained in hand-to-hand combat. But then, so was Jane— or whoever Jane had been. She was fighting back hard, her fierce determination a beautiful contradiction to the gentle uncertainty of the woman he'd held only a matter of minutes ago. Having assessed the situation in under a second, Weller held back for a moment, watching the pair closely in case she needed him— though he knew she wouldn't. Where Weller himself fought with the brute strength and inelegance of a bear, Jane was a wildcat, all grace and agility and raw fury. Even now, after months by her side, the magnitude of her ability still managed to amaze him.
Everything about her amazed him.
Finally seeing that his allies were incapacitated and he was outmatched, the man launched a set of desperate attacks before trying to cut and run— but Jane was too fast, too focused. She used his panic against him, and within moments he was on the ground with the rest of his team, out cold.
Striding quickly to Jane's side, Weller reached for her as she turned— and for a fleeting second he saw her muscles tense, reflexively preparing herself to attack, before her eyes met his and she instantly softened, her hand lifting to rest against his bicep as his fingers curled around her elbow, drawing her in a fraction closer.
"You alright?" he asked quietly, his voice rough, strained.
She nodded silently in response, her wide eyes never leaving his, her fingers gripping him just a little tighter. Swiftly looking her over, he searched for any obvious sign of injury, finding only a small split through one eyebrow. His relief did nothing to ease the harsh tension in his muscles, however, his mind far too aware of what could have happened— would have happened— if she'd been forced to fight all three men alone.
Closing his eyes briefly, he fought the urge to yank her to him, to just wrap her in his arms and refuse to let go— but he couldn't, not now, not when her safety was still under threat. Instead, he simply let himself focus on the warmth of her skin beneath his fingertips for a moment— a reminder that she was here, and real, and okay— before releasing an unsteady breath, lowering his eyes to the man sprawled on the sidewalk.
"Come on," he murmured, "We need to get these guys secured. I'll keep an eye on them while I call this in— you search the van for any weapons and anything we can use to tie them up."
"Okay," she agreed quietly, and he could see the distress in her eyes settle slightly, the task steadying her, giving her purpose. With a last gentle squeeze of her elbow, he stepped back, checking on each of the three men while she climbed into the van, his eyes glancing her way every few seconds, never letting her completely leave his sight for more than a moment. His phone call to headquarters was brief, his orders quickly obeyed, and by the time he'd hung up she had already emerged from the van with her findings: three guns and a knife held carefully wrapped in a black cloth hood, and one roll of duct tape which dangled from her wrist.
Weller's jaw tightened at the sight of the hood and tape, knowing exactly for whom they had been intended. Determinedly pushing back several increasingly violent thoughts towards the three attackers, he forced his fists to unclench, then held out a hand to her.
"Guns and hood in my car," he directed, trying to keep his anger from bleeding into his voice. "Knife and tape to me."
Stepping closer, she let him carefully remove the knife from among the other weapons, then held the guns and hood cradled against her chest while he slipped the duct tape from her wrist. He was about to turn away when he felt the gentle brush of her fingertips against the back of his hand, his eyes automatically finding hers, seeing a look of silent understanding in her gaze. She said nothing; simply let her fingers linger for another moment before she dropped her hand and turned towards the car, following his orders.
For a second he watched her go, his breath escaping on an unsteady exhale, his mind slowly clearing.
"Jane," he called softly after her, and she paused, looking back at him. "My backup piece is in the glovebox. Grab it and keep it on you."
Her nod was brief, her gaze focused and movements assured as she turned back to the car. Drawing on her strength and steadiness, Weller turned to the closest man, checking him over before binding his wrists and ankles tightly with the tape. Straightening, he moved over to repeat the same process for the second, then the third, ensuring that they were all still breathing and suitably secured— though admittedly, he wasn't all that bothered about the first part. Not after what they'd planned to do to Jane.
His Jane.
As he grabbed the nearest man and hefted him roughly over one shoulder, carrying his limp form towards the back of the van, he saw that Jane had already turned the van's engine off and removed the keys, pre-empting his next command.
"Got the doors," she told him, moving around the van and manually locking each door except the large side one through which he was loading their captives. By the time he'd shoved the last of the assailants into the van and pulled the door shut, she was beside him, her hands steady as she locked it and tested the handle.
When she looked up at him a moment later, he was scanning the street around them, still wary. The immediate threat may have been contained, but he was going to take no chances when it came to her safety— not now, or ever again. Eyes still on their surroundings, he gently took hold of her arm, nudging her towards his car.
"Into the backseat. There's more cover."
She didn't hesitate, didn't question his continued caution; she simply led the way to his car and slipped into the backseat, already turning to face him as he climbed in beside her and locked the doors behind him.
Letting out a small breath— they weren't completely safe yet, but they were as close to it as they could be for now— Weller did a final visual sweep before letting his eyes fall to face, seeing her eyeing him in concern.
"Give me your hand."
Despite the gentleness in her voice, it was still unquestionably an order, and he frowned briefly, confused. "What?"
"Your right hand. I saw you favouring it when you were taping the men up. Show me."
At her words, his frown instantly melted away, his lips quirking into a small smile at her concern. Holding out his hand obligingly, he let her cradle it in her own as she looked it over, her skin warm and soft against his, his mind suddenly flashing with the memories of those hands curling around the back of his neck, running over his jaw, clutching at his shirt and pulling him closer.
Swallowing slightly, he deliberately pushed the memories away, sitting still and silent as she examined him, watching her eyebrows knit together in concentration as she methodically pressed over bones and joints, checked the sensation in his fingertips and the movement in his fingers.
"If there's a break in there, it's a small one, and there's no damage to your nerves or vessels," she muttered distractedly, eyes still on his swollen knuckles.
"Guess we're going to have to add medical expertise to your list of qualifications," he murmured lightly, and she looked up at him, the familiar hint of a smile on her lips. The new angle brought the right side of her face more into the glow of the streetlights, his eyes narrowing and smile fading as he once more caught sight of the split that marred her eyebrow, the dried blood glinting in the dim light.
Carefully cupping her cheek in his free hand, he gently turned her face more towards the light, examining the wound closely as he tried to determine the need for stitches. He felt her cheek curve against his palm as she smiled a little, her own hand coming up to cover his.
"I'm okay, Kurt," she murmured, then met his eyes for a long moment, her gaze growing serious, her voice softening. "Because of you."
The emotion in her voice hit him hard, her words infused with both quiet certainty and an unmistakeable tenderness, as if he was one of the few things in her world that she truly believed in, one of the few things she knew was real.
"Jane," was all he could say, his voice emerging as a rough whisper, his eyes falling shut as he let his forehead lower to press against hers, his hand leaving her cheek to bury his fingers in her hair, holding her close.
Jane trusted him, believed in him— and he had almost failed her. If he'd ignored his instincts, or taken a wrong turn, or even been just a minute slower to act, she would have been gone, torn away from him, destroying him all over again.
Twenty-five years ago, he had lost the little girl who'd been his world; and tonight, he'd almost lost the woman who'd come to mean the same.
As if she knew his thoughts, she pressed a little closer, one hand lifting to the back of his neck, fingernails pressing lightly into his skin as if anchoring him to her.
"I'm right here," she breathed, the words feathering against his lips. "You didn't let them take me. I'm safe."
Clenching his eyes shut, he fought the sudden tears that burned at the back of his eyelids, concentrating instead on her slow, even breathing, clinging to it like a lifeline until his own fell into rhythm with her, the tension within him finally beginning to ease under her soothing touch.
They stayed like that— silent, unmoving, united— until red and blue lights began to flash in the distance, the first faint wail of a siren reaching their ears.
Letting out an unsteady breath, Weller lifted his head, his eyes finding hers, seeing everything he felt reflected in her gaze. For a moment, he was lost in that look, lost in the knowledge that she truly wanted this, wanted him— before he forced himself to focus, breaking her gaze and sending a glance out at the approaching vehicles, the presence of so much backup allowing him to relax just a little more, knowing the danger was almost over. She was almost safe.
Looking back down at her, he gently shifted his hand— which had still been buried in her hair, cradling her head— to press against her cheek, his thumb brushing lightly across her skin.
"Jane," he began firmly, attempting to sound stern, but knew the effect would be ruined by the unmasked tenderness in his gaze. "No more sneaking out, okay? Next time, just call me, and I'll come to you."
"Next time?" she asked softly, a hint of a smile in her voice as her eyes flicked down to his mouth, her gaze lingering for a moment before shifting back to meet his, eyebrows raising just a fraction.
A stronger man would have resisted; but Weller was quickly learning— and willingly accepting— exactly where his weaknesses lay.
His lips curved against his will, a smile breaking through before he simply surrendered, leaning down and pressing them to hers. He kept the kiss gentle, his lips soft and undemanding as they moved slowly over hers, careful not to push her into more than she was ready for. Rather than pulling away, though, she just leaned even closer, sighing into him as she deepened the kiss.
He allowed himself a few brief moments to revel in the kiss, in her, before reluctantly pulling back— in a matter of seconds, the squad cars' headlights would be shining directly in on them, exposing them to far too many pairs of eyes— his thumb stroking gently across her cheek as he lifted his gaze to hers.
"Next time," he repeated, his words both a confirmation and a promise, watching the spark of joy grow and bloom in her eyes. "But for now, let's just focus on getting you home safe."
"Kurt, I don't— I'm not sure if I—" she began, then faltered, suddenly looking almost flustered. "I don't know if I'll be okay being there alone, after..."
Seeing her gaze flick rapidly towards the van, then drop to where their hands still sat entwined in her lap, Weller drew in a slow breath, brushing her hair back from her face with gentle fingers, his touch lingering as her eyes lifted back to his. Letting one corner of his mouth quirk up in a tiny almost-smile, he lifted his brows.
"Well then it's a good thing you've got such a comfy couch."
Relief and gratitude flashed in her eyes, and he squeezed her hand gently before glancing out at the multiple newly-arrived vehicles.
"You get in the passenger seat, and I'll deal with them?" he suggested quietly, waiting for her nod before releasing her at last, the two of them reluctantly disentangling from one another, sharing a last look before shifting to opposite sides of the car, moving in synch as they pushed the doors open and climbed out.
He waited until he saw her slip into the passenger seat— her eyes meeting his over her shoulder— before finally closing his door, making sure to lock the car as he walked away.
Moments later, he was amongst a knot of agents and officers, his explanation concise and his orders direct. Then, leaving one of his more senior agents in charge of the scene— at least until Reade or Zapata arrived and could be properly briefed— he returned to his car just minutes after leaving it, his eyes meeting hers briefly as he slid into the driver's seat.
Starting the car, he shifted into gear, carefully manoeuvring past the van and the agency vehicles before silently reaching a hand across the centre console, warmth radiating throughout his chest when she took it without hesitation, fingers twining through his.
Glancing across at the woman who'd managed to turn his entire world upside down— or maybe, who had finally righted what had been disordered and broken to begin with— he let out a slow breath, his grip unconsciously tightening around hers as he realised the truth.
Whether he'd found Taylor or not, he knew he'd found what he was looking for.
And he never planned on letting go.
"Come on, Jane," he murmured at last, a tiny smile curving his lips as their eyes met.
"Let's go home."
I swear, there used to be a time when I could write a fic without it turning into a gigantic fluff-fest... but apparently those days are gone. Apologies for any overly affectionate/OOC behaviour by these two... I just couldn't help myself.
Anyhow, thanks for reading, and all comments/reviews are welcome :)