Well, there is a Christmas chapter planned for this story, but we're not there yet. Turns out I am kind of busy in December. And I am somehow surprised by this every single year. :)
So instead, I give you a fluffy, gratuitous Star Wars reference, because it is my headcanon that teen Kurt Weller escaped from reality to a galaxy far, far away. And also because I was still flailing over Rogue One when I wrote this.
Wishing you a very merry Christmas if you celebrate, peace & joy & tasty cookies if you don't (or just prefer cookies). Thanks for being so lovely & supportive of me and all the fic authors out there.
Updates will resume sometime after my hordes of relatives depart & I get to spend a full 24 hours in my jammies...
Jane woke up at her usual time, before the alarm on her phone went off, and stared confused into the pre-dawn darkness. The faint light coming in through the windows was on the wrong side of the room. And then the previous day came rushing back at her.
She sat up and scrubbed her hands over her face. She'd gotten married. To Weller. And he'd sat up watching tv with her until he'd been almost asleep on the sofa beside her. She'd had to nudge him with her elbow to send him off to bed.
And she'd fallen asleep right away and slept all the way through the night with no nightmares.
It might be harder than she'd expected to keep herself from getting too comfortable here.
She pulled on some clothes and crept quietly to the bathroom. She wasn't sure what time Kurt got up in the morning. He was usually at his desk by the time she arrived in the bullpen, but she worked out first, so she didn't know what time he arrived in the building.
Kurt was in the kitchen, standing in front of the coffee maker with his phone in his hand when she emerged from the bathroom. "Good morning. How'd you sleep?"
"Fine, thanks." Better than she had in a long while, actually.
He slipped his phone into his pocket, and a moment later, she felt the phone in her pocket vibrate.
"Coffee?" he asked, turning to pull two mugs out of the cupboard.
"Yes, please." She had a new message. From Kurt. "Why are you texting me? I'm right here."
He ignored her question and added some milk to one of the cups. "Here you go." He pushed the mug across the counter to her.
She was still looking at her phone. She tapped on the link he'd sent her and read, "New York State Driver's Manual," from the top of the page that loaded.
He sipped his coffee, looking at her over the rim of his mug.
"Driver's Manual?"
"Use our down time this week to read up so you can take your permit test."
She blinked.
"You said you didn't have a driver's license. You need to pass the permit test before you can take the on-the-road test and get your license."
She picked up the mug he'd fixed for her—exactly the way she liked it—and stared into it instead of meeting his eyes. She'd just thrown her lack of a license out there the other day. Not only had he listened, he had remembered and figured out what she needed to do in order to get one. Her coffee was too hot, but she gulped some down anyway, trying to get rid of the lump in her throat.
"Thanks," she said, when she was sure her voice would be steady.
He shrugged and turned away. "You've got to do all the work. You want some toast?"
"No, this is good." She held up the mug.
He frowned at her. "Your cereal is in the cabinet by the fridge."
She didn't want to admit that she'd bought the cereal for dinner on nights when they returned to the NYO too late for her to grab dinner from the cafeteria or order takeout. "I'll grab breakfast from the cafeteria after I'm done in the gym."
He grunted and fed two slices of bread into the toaster. "You don't eat enough."
She stared at him, mug forgotten in her hand. "What?"
He plunked a jar of peanut butter down on the counter in front of her. "You skip meals all the time. And there was no actual food in your fridge."
"I eat plenty." She was torn between ire and a traitorous warmth in the region of heart at his concern.
"Hmmph." The toast popped up, and he slathered peanut butter on both slices. Then he plunked one on a second plate and pushed it toward her.
She drank her coffee and ignored the toast while he wolfed down his slice in about four bites.
He rinsed down the toast with the rest of his coffee and set his plate and mug in the sink. "Car leaves when you're done eating," he said over his shoulder as he left the kitchen.
She glared after him, but he didn't turn around and her effort was wasted. She glared at the toast, but it wasn't impressed either, so she shrugged and picked it up. She had plenty more things in the world to worry about than someone fixing her breakfast. She washed it down with the rest of her coffee, put her dishes in the sink next to his, and went to face her first day as Mrs. Weller.
###
She passed her permit test Friday afternoon.
They'd had a light week—no tattoo cases and no new intel on Sandstorm's plans, much to Nas's obvious frustration—so Jane had found a few hours to basically commit the manual to memory. The test was almost laughably easy compared to, say, piloting a helicopter.
She kept her face deliberately blank though, as she returned to the waiting area. Kurt was pacing around the row of chairs, but he turned toward her as soon as she entered. His brow was furrowed, and Jane realized with a start that he was actually worrying about her passing the silly thing.
She allowed her features to relax into a grin. "I passed!" She held up the printout that showed her passing score.
His face lit up. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, his arms opened up and he caught her around the waist in a fierce hug, lifting her feet off the ground. "I knew you would," he muttered into her ear.
She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and squeezed him back. He felt warm and safe and solid, and she didn't want to let go.
He lowered her feet back down to the floor, but didn't immediately release her. She turned her face, her nose brushing against his cheek, and they stared at each other for one breath, then two.
And then she swallowed, and he let go, and they both stepped back.
"We should celebrate," he declared quickly. "Where do you want to go for dinner?"
Honestly, she would rather just go home and eat dinner in his kitchen. Being out in public was like being on stage. She worried that she'd do something that would expose that they weren't a couple. Or worse, that she'd do something too couple-y that would make Kurt uncomfortable or reveal how much she wished they actually were a couple. At home with him, they could just be Kurt and Jane instead of Mr. and Mrs. Weller.
She opened her mouth to answer, but he was already talking, his too-perceptive gaze never leaving her face. "I have a better idea. Let's pick up some steaks on the way home. And a couple of celebratory cupcakes from the bakery on the corner."
She closed her mouth and nodded with relief. "That sounds great."
"Good. You're driving." He pressed the keys into her hand. When she didn't move immediately, he added, "You need driving hours before you can take your road test."
He steered her toward the door, one large hand splayed across her lower back. "What kind of cupcake do you want?"
They couldn't decide on the cupcakes. They narrowed it down to German chocolate, s'mores, and mocha fudge. And then Jane saw the December special—chocolate with peppermint icing—and Kurt laughed and bought all four flavors. By the time they got back to his apartment, they had also acquired steaks, salad makings, and a bottle of wine.
"You're in charge of salad," he told her, moving to get wine glasses out of the cupboard.
"Yessir." She snapped a mock salute and then set to work.
Dinner had quickly become her favorite part of the day. Gone were her days of coming home to a dark, lonely apartment and a container of takeout food. Kurt enjoyed cooking, and he informed her it was a lot more fun to cook for someone else. He put her to work, never making fun of her for her lack of cooking skills and patiently teaching her the most basic of cooking tasks.
It frustrated her sometimes that she could field strip an M16 blindfolded but had to be shown the proper way to dice an onion. What had her prior life been like that it was more important for her to know dozens of ways to kill a man with her bare hands than it was to know how to feed herself properly?
You need to learn to cook, said the ever-present voice in the back of her head, because this isn't going to last forever. But she pushed the thought away. She had little enough time as it was, she wasn't going to waste a minute of it.
While they cooked, they talked. Sometimes they listened to music—and it always startled them both when she caught herself singing along. But if she stopped to think about it, the words disappeared. She'd scrunch up her face, trying to will them back, and he'd touch her on the arm and murmur, "It's okay."
And when he said that, it was.
"So." The cork emerged from the top of the bottle with a soft pop. He poured wine into two glasses and set one beside the sink where she was washing the salad greens. "What do you usually do on the weekend?"
She stared at the running water until the bowl was in danger of overflowing. With a shake of her head, she shut off the faucet. Wait for Monday, was her honest answer. But she knew that wasn't what he was asking. "Go for a run. Maybe… see a movie." She'd visited a few museums, but it seemed like everyone was there with someone else. Movies were easier; no one noticed you were alone in the dark.
He nodded. "Laundry, grocery shopping. Not as much fun, but gotta be done."
She concentrated on draining the water out of the bowl of greens. She had so few clothes that she did laundry pretty much continuously. She'd started throwing some of his in when she started the machine. It seemed little enough in exchange for all of the meals he fixed, especially since he also insisted on helping her with the dishes.
"You want to see a movie tomorrow? It's supposed to pour all weekend. Not good weather for running."
She ran in the rain. Anything to avoid staring at the walls of her safe house for a little while. "What movie were you and Patterson talking about this morning?" she asked instead.
He grinned at her. "The new Star Wars movie."
At her blank look, his smile faded. "Wait. Am I married to a Star Trek fan?"
She shrugged helplessly. "That would be bad?"
"Well," he picked up his wine glass, "Star Trek is fine. But Star Wars is better."
Jane was pretty sure that Patterson had said something similar to her during her first stay at the FBI. She picked up her own glass. "Then I guess I'm a Stars Wars fan."
"Nope." His voice stopped her before she could take a sip.
"Nope?"
"You have to watch the movies first. In the proper order. Episodes four, five, and six. Then one, two, and three. Then The Force Awakens—that's number seven. Then we can go see Rogue One."
"Right." She eyed the bottle of wine. "And how long will that take?"
He grinned. "All weekend. Hurry up with that salad. The steaks won't take long. We'll start after dinner."
And so about an hour later, she found herself tucked up on Kurt's sofa, a glass of wine in her hand and a plate of cupcakes on the coffee table in front of them, watching in bemusement as he hit the play button on the remote, grinning like a kid.
He settled in beside her, their shoulders rubbing companionably together. "You'll like it," he assured her, his face almost comically serious.
She just smiled. The movie could be absolutely horrible, and she would still love it. She couldn't remember having ever been happier.