Discovery and Discussion
Jeller tag to 1x01, for the prompt 'Kurt stays to help Jane figure out what she likes to eat'.
"Goodnight, ma'am."
"Will you stay? Just for a little while?"
Kurt stopped short at the pleading in the mystery woman's voice. He'd been so close to making his escape from the safehouse, and from the awkward conversation, but how could he ignore such a plaintive cry for help?
The interrogation room was safe territory—don't think about her hand on your face, her gaze so intensely examining you—but the safehouse was completely different. There was no one watching from the other side of the one-way glass. Despite the agents on protective detail outside the house, he and this Jane Doe were completely alone.
And she would be completely alone once he left her here. Not just alone in the house, but alone in the world. Alone with her thoughts, her fears, her questions…
He turned to face her again, trying not to seem as though he was floundering in unfamiliar waters. He should just bid her goodnight again and walk out, but he didn't have that kind of cruelty in him, not when she looked so lost.
"You could recommend some things I could order to eat, maybe." Then her gaze dropped to the floor, and she shook her head slightly. "But I guess you have your own life to get back to. Never mind. I'm sorry I asked."
It would be inappropriate for him to stay. It would cross the boundary between professional and unprofessional conduct. But she had no life, no memories—not even of what she liked to eat.
What was that like?
"You should get going," she said softly, dispiritedly.
It would have been like kicking a puppy to leave her.
"Give me a few minutes," he said. "I'll be back."
Surprise lit up those big, expressive eyes. "I, uh… Okay."
He went outside and across the street, to the unmarked vehicle belonging to Jane Doe's protective detail. Dubanowski and Brown were both great junior agents, and they were used to protective duty at this stage of their careers—as tedious as it could sometimes be, they rarely complained.
"Hey, Weller," Brown said. "Heading home for the night?"
Kurt sighed. "That was the plan, but our mystery woman doesn't even remember what she likes to eat, and she doesn't wanna be alone in a strange place right away. I dunno, it just doesn't feel right to leave her there two minutes after dropping her off. You guys wanna come in and eat with us? We're probably gonna order from three or four different takeout places."
The two agents exchanged a glance. If they were surprised by his decision to indulge their Jane Doe, it was too dark in the interior of the car to tell.
"Sounds good, but Mayfair will tear strips off our asses if someone starts lurking outside while we're inside eating takeout. You're gonna have to handle this one alone, Weller. Sorry." Dubanowski shrugged apologetically.
"Good luck in there," Brown added, probably sensing his discomfort.
At least no one would be gossiping about impropriety. He'd invited the other agents in, and they'd seen how uncomfortable the idea of sticking around made him. His ass was covered.
And it wasn't like it would be a candlelit dinner.
Where had that thought come from? It wasn't like she'd propositioned him, or flirted, or said anything that could be interpreted as having subtext.
Again, he felt the sensory memory of her touch skimming down his face, and he shut his thoughts down, hard.
When he returned to the safehouse, their Jane Doe had switched on some lamps and killed the harsh overhead lighting. It made the room seem more welcoming, but also uncomfortably intimate.
She was sitting on the very edge of the couch, still as tense as she'd been the first time he'd walked into the interrogation room, her tattooed arms wrapped around her midsection. As he entered the room, she flinched a little and looked up, her eyes startled.
"It's okay. It's just me. I was just letting the agents outside know that I wouldn't be leaving just yet, and to expect delivery people."
Acting on a hunch, he went into the kitchen and started opening drawers and cupboards. As well as basic kitchen utensils, he found a stack of takeout menus and leafed through them, discounting the ones he knew had bad hygiene ratings or poor quality food. His neighbourhood wasn't too far from here—within easy walking distance, actually —so there was some overlap, and he ended up with a few menus from takeout places he regularly ordered from.
He'd kind of been in the mood for Chinese food, but the only Chinese menu was for a place that had recently been closed down, so he left it where it was and took the others.
When he offered the menus to the nameless woman, she thanked him with a quick, forced smile. He couldn't blame her for not being able to summon any genuine enthusiasm for food. This situation must be hell for her.
"So, uh, what would you recommend?" she asked, examining the photographs on the menus.
Dismissing the urge to point out that the pictures wouldn't be an accurate representation of the food that actually arrived—he didn't want to patronise her—Kurt shrugged and indicated the menu for Dosa Mahal, the Indian restaurant a block away from his own apartment. "Personally, I'll probably get some Indian. You can try some of mine, but a lot of Indian food's heavily spiced, and not to everyone's taste, so I'd recommend you maybe pick something else for your first night."
She nodded, studying the pizza place's menu. "What's Italian food like?"
How could he explain to someone who didn't have any frame of reference? "I've never met anyone who doesn't like pizza."
She pointed at a picture of a Hawaiian pizza. "That looks like it might taste good."
He stifled a smile at the idea that he'd be able to introduce her to the contentious 'does pineapple belong on pizza?' debate. "I'll put it on the list."
By the time they were done, she'd selected the pizza, a mild Thai noodle dish and—after a brief moment of indecision about whether to go for Greek or Japanese—a mixed platter of sushi. She'd probably be eating leftovers for the rest of the week, assuming she liked what she'd chosen.
She excused herself to go to the bathroom while he ordered from the four restaurants—Indian, Italian, Japanese and Thai. Just as he finished up, trying not to think about how he'd explain the huge fast food bill to Mayfair in his expense report, their Jane Doe returned to the room, looking a little haunted.
"You okay, ma'am?" he asked, wondering if she'd seen something from one of the upstairs windows, or remembered something that might give them a clue as to her identity.
She sighed. "I was just…looking at some of the tattoos again. I don't understand this whole thing. Who would do this to someone else?"
"We'll figure it out. It's just gonna take some time."
She nodded, looking around the room a little uncertainly. "I don't remember much, but if this is my place, I get the sense that I'm supposed to offer you a drink or something. Not that I know what kind of drinks I can even offer you. Just water, probably."
"I'll grab some when the food comes. It's okay—you can sit down."
She sat on the other edge of the couch, staying upright for a moment, then leaning back a little uneasily, as though getting comfortable was a strange concept for her.
"Thank you. For staying, I mean. I know you probably have a family to get home to, or a partner, or something."
He smiled a little. "Just my sister and nephew. They're used to me not being around much, so don't worry about that."
She nodded, but didn't seem to know what else to say.
He wasn't a master of small talk himself, but he found himself wanting to put her at ease, so he continued, "It's only temporary—my sister living with me, I mean. She just got out of a bad relationship and needed somewhere to stay, and I had the space, so…"
"What's it like? Living with your sister?"
He couldn't help but roll his eyes. "A lot like living with her when we were kids. Only now she has a kid of her own." And we don't have to tiptoe around to avoid pissing off Dad.
"I wonder if I have any brothers or sisters," she said, almost to herself.
"If you do, I'm sure they'll recognise you from your picture on TV, or in the papers. Someone's gotta come forward. No one in this world is completely isolated."
"I hope you're right. I'm guessing you've never worked a case like mine before?"
Definitely not one where my name is tattooed on the victim's back.
"Not specifically like yours," he said, "but there are common elements. We assume you must have been taken from somewhere, before they put the tattoos on you and wiped your memory. Kidnap cases come through the Bureau a lot. And cases where the perpetrator leaves clues for the investigation team, too. That seems to be the case with you, with the tattoos."
"So you know where to start looking for answers?"
Now that we've lost the van that dropped you in Times Square? Not a damn clue, unless we can figure out the tattoos.
"We're following a few leads."
She leaned forward, her expression urgent. "Well, maybe if you tell me everything you have, I can help. It might help me get a memory back, or…"
He shook his head. "I don't want to throw theories at you before we have anything concrete. It might confuse you, or build false memories that lead us in the wrong direction. The brain is a weird thing sometimes."
She deflated a little. "I see."
"What you can do," he said, wanting to reassure her a little, "is work with Dr. Borden, the psychiatrist, to see if you can remember something. He's gonna meet with you first thing in the morning."
She nodded slowly. "The English guy, right?"
"Yeah."
"Is he good at what he does?"
"He only joined the FBI recently, and this case is the first one I've worked with him, but from what Mayfair—my boss—was saying, he comes very well recommended." Don't ask me whether it will be enough to get around the ZIP in your system.
"Okay. I'll do my best." She gave him a determined look. It gave him the feeling that underneath the understandable vulnerability, she had a steel spine.
Hell, he'd already deduced that from the video footage of the polygraph test they'd given her. With no idea of the answers to any of the questions she'd been posed in the interrogation room, she'd still managed to assert herself, demanding to speak to someone in charge—to him.
The first in the procession of delivery people arrived, and within ten minutes they'd moved into the dining room, realising that there was too much food for the coffee table to hold. They sat across from each other, myriad takeout cartons spread out between them.
"Thank you so much for all of this. I don't know how I'm gonna pay you back, but eventually, when I find out who I am, I assume I have a bank account with at least a little money in it…"
He smiled, transferring prawn biryani from a carton onto one of the plates he'd found in the kitchen. "The FBI is covering your living expenses while we're working your case. Including food costs. You don't have to worry, ma'am."
"Okay. That's a relief."
He almost mentioned that medical costs would also be covered, but if she didn't remember how expensive hospital bills could get, he wasn't about to remind her. Some forms of ignorance could still be bliss for her, despite how desperately she wanted to regain her memories.
She looked up from her plate—she seemed to have been enjoying her first few bites of pizza, pineapple and all—and frowned a little. "I wish you wouldn't call me ma'am. It seems pretty formal. I know I don't have a name right now, but…"
"What would you prefer?"
She shrugged. "I heard some of the other agents referring to me as 'a Jane Doe'. From the context, I'm assuming that means someone whose identity you don't know?"
"Yeah. John Doe for men. Jane for women."
With a sad shrug, she said, "Then I guess you might as well call me Jane."
"We're gonna find out who you are. But for now, Jane it is."
"Thank you, Special Agent Weller."
It was an effort not to invite her to call him by his first name. Kurt concentrated on his meal.
After a couple of minutes, as Jane tentatively tried some Thai noodles—using chopsticks with confidence, he noted with interest—he asked, "What's the verdict on the food?"
She finished chewing and swallowing before replying, "All good. It's a little weird mixing all the different styles, but it all tastes fine."
That was another thing to add to the list of things they knew about Jane. She'd used chopsticks before; she wasn't a picky eater; she had no problem making her wishes known, despite stressful circumstances… Shame not one of those things will help us track down her identity.
She was eyeing his plate curiously, so he pushed it towards her. "I did promise you could try some of mine."
"Only if you really don't mind."
At his silent encouragement, she used the chopsticks to grab a little biryani—now that was a strange melding of cultures—and took a taste. Her eyes fell closed as she appreciatively chewed and swallowed. "Now that is amazing."
Her enjoyment was so obvious that he found himself grabbing a slice of pizza, abandoning the Indian dish. "We can switch."
She hesitated. "Are you sure?"
The pizza tasted a little odd now that his palate was expecting biryani, but he'd deal with it. "Go ahead." God knows she deserves a little pleasure in her life—if a life is even what she has right now.
A couple of slices of pizza later, Jane had consumed the rest of the biryani, and Kurt sensed it was a good time to take his leave. "I'm gonna leave you to it for now. Just make sure you get everything else into the fridge once it's gone cold. You probably don't remember having food poisoning, but trust me, it's not something you want to try if you can help it."
"I'll bear that in mind." She stood up when he did, and the awkwardness between them, which had faded a little during the meal, returned full-force. "I guess I'll see you at some point tomorrow?"
"Yeah. Your detail will drive you in tomorrow, and we'll talk after your session with Dr. Borden."
She gave a quick nod, but again, didn't quite manage a smile. "I'll, uh… I'll see you then."
He made it to the door unchallenged this time, and turned to see her standing in the middle of the living room, hugging her abdomen again, looking ridiculously small and vulnerable. It would have been unprofessional to give her a hug, but the urge rose within him and he had to ignore it.
"Goodnight, Jane."
"Goodnight."
He gave her a quick nod, and left before his empathy for her plight could overwhelm his common sense.
She had to get used to living by herself for now, and it wasn't his responsibility to hold her hand. He was an agent, not her nanny. But still, he couldn't help but feel guilty as he drove away.
Damn it, Weller, you should have just left her to eat alone. Getting too close to a victim is a bad idea.
Even if she does have your name tattooed on her back.
