Strength In Broken Places
"The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places." - Ernest Hemingway
Summary: Set somewhere in the future. Tasha and Jane and Kurt in a hospital room.
"So this is what it feels like."
Tash blinks, not registering the sound of the words at first, not really hearing it, because it feels much further away. It sounds too quiet, too soft; more like a voice inside her head instead of an actual voice at all. She wouldn't be surprised if she's hearing things at this point, if she's hallucinating, seeing as she hasn't slept in days, but she isn't—it's very much real, and it belongs to the woman sitting next to Kurt Weller's hospital bed.
Tash rubs her eyes, drags them across the room to Jane, who's curled up in the same kind of uncomfortable hospital chair as Tash is. She briefly wonders when the last time either of them has left the room, or what the day is, or the time, because the last seventy-two hours have bled together. The lights are dimmed, the curtains are drawn, and the only thing Tash can really see in the soft shadows are the edges of Jane's face, and the circles under the green eyes that peer woefully back at her.
"What do you mean?" Tash finally asks, rolling her shoulders, fighting a yawn, the tempting call of exhaustion on the edge of her periphery. She's almost nodded off twice in the last hour that she remembers, and probably a half dozen other times that she doesn't.
Jane pulls the thermal hospital blanket she's been wrapped up in tighter, her chin tucked against her chest, one arm left exposed where it lays along Kurt's bed, her hand in his. Ever since they moved him from post-op recovery to a regular room, Tash is pretty sure Jane's hand hasn't moved from where it is now, as if she could somehow guarantee that he would get better if she made good on her promise to never let him go.
"Feeling helpless," Jane finally manages, albeit weakly, her voice still hoarse from crying—from screaming. Tash pushes the memory away, because it's still vivid, still fresh. "The waiting, the wondering," Jane continues, "the not knowing if..."
Tash watches Jane's grip on Kurt's hand tighten fleetingly, she sees the terror at the edge of the front the younger woman tries to put up, and it makes her heart sink in her chest.
For the first time since everything happened, since they found Kurt bleeding out and half-alive in that alley with multiple gun shot wounds to the chest, Tash can finally see beyond the the blinder's she's spent the last three days forcing herself to wear in order to keep her shit together. She's spent so much time focusing on the job, on doing it well like she's been taught to do, like Kurt would want her to do, that she never really stopped to consider anything else. She never really stopped to breathe beyond the case, the loose ends, the lists of suspects or evidence long enough to do anything other than sit here, in this hospital chair, and stare at the deathly still body of one of the only men who ever mattered to her. She never stopped and looked at Jane, like she's looking at her now, and that's when it hits her—and when it does hit her, it hurts.
She recognizes the look on Jane's face, she knows it all too well.
It's the face of someone who's terrified of losing their entire world, and there's not a single damn thing they can do about it.
Tash pushes herself up out of her seat, crosses the room from where she's been camped out against the far wall, and crouches down in front of Jane. She puts one hand on the bed railing for support, the other one on Jane's knee where she's folded and contorted into the chair. The soft whir of the ventilator that's breathing for Kurt, and the occasional beep of the vitals monitors, are the only noise in the room. Tash opens her mouth to say something, to tell Jane what she needs to hear…
Except all she can think of are all the times she's been left to wait, to torture herself, just like Jane is now. All she can think of are all the disappointments, and the heartbreak, and how many times she's lost someone, and lost a piece of herself in the process.
Hope is a terrible thing, Tash thinks, love is a terrible thing—because all it does is take and take, and there's no promise you'll get anything in return. She's spent her entire life chasing that false glimmer, only to realize it's a thing just as likely to destroy you as it is to raise you up. And Tash knows, after speaking with the doctors, that the next twenty-four hours for Kurt are crucial, but they're also unpredictable. She's read the medical files, the prognosis. He lost so much blood, they pulled five fucking bullets out of his chest, out of his lungs, his heart—
Jane's lost enough, Tash doesn't want her to lose the one thing she's managed to hold on to in all of this. She doesn't want to watch her break in the aftermath if she does. She doesn't want her to suffer like she did.
But how is she supposed to tell her that it'll be ok when it might not be?
How does she tell her when it really isn't?
"Tash, are you ok? You're crying…"
Goddammit, Zapata.
"I'm fine," Tash draws her hand back, drags the back of it across her face, erasing any sign of tears. She takes a deep breath, looking up at Jane, who's got nothing but concern on her face, nothing but worry, and it makes Tash feel guilty. She's the last one who needs worrying about.
"Listen to me, ok?" Tash grabs Jane's hand, holds it to her shoulder like a life line, "Kurt's not done fighting, and neither are you."
Jane becomes very still, her green eyes searching, and before Tash realizes what's happening, she slides out of the chair and onto the ground with her, her arms wrapping themselves around Tash's neck, pulling her close. Out of reflex Tash stiffens at first, surprised, taken aback, but it breaks her too—the levy finally gives. After hours and hours of holding it together, for the team, but especially for herself, she can't do it anymore. She can't keep pretending that she's invincible, impervious, as much as she wishes she was.
So she hugs Jane back, she hugs her back and for once in her life she lets herself cry.
They sit there like that for a while, two people trying to find a way to keep themselves from drowning.
Two people who can't afford to lose anyone else, least of all the man in the bed next to them.
AN: Apologies because this was unedited, and also I know this is fucking sad, but I am blaming it on CJ for the prompt. I really just wanted to get inside Tash's head and work with the baggage I imagine she carries around. Thanks for all the feedback y'all, and I promise not to be so depressing next time. x)