A/N: I have so much unfinished I really shouldn't be sticking my toes in another fandom... but this show. Oh my God. I can't help myself. I haven't been this attached to a series or its characters in a long time. Bet I'm not the only one shouting a BIG "Yay!" that it's already been upped for Season 2!
Disclaimers: I don't own Blindspot. Contains spoilers for episodes and promos. Unbetaed, mistakes are mine.
Then Midnight She Wept
The first time she dreamt of him was the night she pressed his hand to her chest and told him he was her starting point. They had stared at each other so intently she couldn't catch her breath afterwards, hovering in anticipation of a kiss that didn't happen.
She doesn't remember how long it's been she experienced a man's touch, but the wrapt fascination with which Kurt Weller looks at her when his guard is down and he thinks no one is watching makes her know she wants to feel something other than empty. Especially when she's with him. She craves his fingers on her skin and knowledge that can only be obtained in his mouth.
Going through her routine - brushing her teeth and combing her hair, washing her face and scrutinizing every detail trying to remember something, anything - she wonders if Weller would like her hair better long. A short, dark lock twisting around her finger, she stares into the mirror. Would he have kissed her if she wasn't a puzzle, an asset? Would she be going to bed alone if she wasn't a tattooed freak?
She crawls under the covers and flops her head back on the pillows. Her fists clench and unclench on top of the comforter. Light coming through the thin curtains and the traffic on the street below keep her from relaxing. Deep breaths, in and out. It's normal to think about him. He's been her rock, she is barely around anyone else and his name is inked on her back. He's the light in her time of darkness.
Her eyes close and she's back in the moment downstairs. Only her mind, Weller doesn't leave. He leans in, cupping her face and drawing her hand to his chest. He repeats the words he said to her that afternoon. Do you feel that? I'm here. I'm here with you.
Their lips feather together lightly and she feels his heart start pounding beneath her palm at the same wild horse gallop of her own. Their fingers tangle and she leads him slowly up the stairs to her room. It's so real she can almost taste him - coffee and peppermint gum? Or is it toothpaste? Either way it makes her squirm beneath the sheets.
Everything changes after that. There's a tattoo on his arm, it's too dark to see the color of his eyes. Something about it is wrong even though it feels right. She wants it to be Weller, but she knows it isn't.
Talking to the shrink changes nothing. Or maybe it changes everything because she freaks out that Weller is getting too close, that he's only adding to her confusion. Space. She tells Weller she needs space when what she really needs is to be held. Can you slip into withdrawal over something you've never had? Even if she is Taylor Shaw - and she isn't sure about that anymore, but he is and the fact that he just knows is kind of annoying - they were too young to have experienced the kind of intimacy she feels with him.
Maybe she's transferring her feelings about someone else - the man with the tree tattoo? - onto Weller simply because he's there. He's there and she has no one else. But that doesn't seem right either. It can't be. She would know, right? Weller wouldn't be able to touch her just the way her body craves if he didn't feel something too, right? It's not one sided, it couldn't be.
Confusion settles bone deep. It makes her jumpy. She's even jumpier on the plane than she would've been just over the turbulence. It's insane how some things are just on autopilot. Shooting. Fighting. Flying the chopper.
Weller grounds her with a steadying grip. They joke about how odd it is and she quips it's about being in control. Control she only feels safe ceding to him. It's nearly crossing their invisible line when she admits to thinking about him the entire time they were apart. They're in it together. She needs him.
And the way he touches her? How his lips tilt in a way that could only be described as cocky? It makes her warm all over, from the curve of her ears all the way down to her toes. He holds onto her, his forearms resting against hers, his thumbs rubbing slow circles just below the crook of her elbows. And he doesn't let go.
Things are different after that. At least they feel different to her. Except she realizes that he knows so much more about her than she knows about him. It isn't that she doesn't want to know - particularly if she is Taylor - it's that he keeps his walls so high it's impossible to get too close. Weller needs her, he needs a friend the same way she does. Perhaps that's the key to unraveling everything.
Offering to listen - trying to give guidance on his relationship with Mayfair - that's what friend's do, right? Only friends don't look at each other the way they do. They don't share lingering touches or feel intense longing. She knows it's not just in her head. The way her name clings to his tongue in a rough tone that scratches an itch inside her even as his eyes call her something else...
He refuses to go out with her and Zapata. Patterson comes along and her female counterparts try to help her figure out her drink. She's forgotten any relationships she may have had, but she has a feeling this is more than just a night out. They're helping distract her from the fact he isn't here. It's nice, the whole almost having girlfriends thing.
Still, she can't talk to them about Weller. To do so would mean calling both his and her own ability to compartmentalize into question. He's already talked about leaving the team if that's what's best for her and it's not what she wants. No, she wants something different. Something far more primal.
Climbing into the back of the cab with a very tipsy Patterson, she only catches half of what the younger woman says. Something about library guy and taking chances, about being married to the job and unable to make a relationship last longer than 6 months. Careful, be careful because it hurts. It hurts when you get attached and then can't have the person you want more than your next breath.
Is Patterson talking about herself or... ? The girl was a genius when it came to computers and all things technical but, as drunk as Patterson was, could she possibly know what was going through Jane's head? Nah, the buzz of alcohol was just causing a fog. It had to be. Anything else would only make for trouble.
Jane spends the afternoon with Patterson and Zapata after they take down the assassins. They're sequestered in a room with the kind of clothes Jane knows wouldn't have been in her closet if she could remember. Dresses, fancy lingerie. The kind of things a woman wears to attract attention, not blend in. Jeans and hoodies were more her speed, simple cotton that covered as many of the reminders she couldn't remember life before Time Square as possible.
"Are you sure this is a good idea?" she asks Tasha pleadingly as the Latina zips her into an elegant gown. Sure, she knows it was her idea and that she's the one who speaks Bulgarian but she's starting to feel silly. "The tattoos..."
"It's not like you'll be in a bikini," Patterson quips, choosing that moment to appear with a pair of strappy pumps dangling from her fingers. "We'll cover what the dress doesn't with make-up. Nobody will ever know."
"You really expect me to walk in those?" Jane asks, pointing at the shoes as her nose crinkles.
The other women laugh and Patterson stoops to slip the shoes on Jane's feet before tucking her hair behind her ears and admiring Jane's new look. "Weller is going to flip..."
Zapata shoots the girl a look Jane doesn't miss. Back off. It quickly eases into a warm smile and a change of subject. "Slit up the side, perfect for a thigh holster if you want. You have to admit, that's hot, right?"
That sets Jane at ease. Sort of. New clothes, new shoes. Make-up and hair. She feels fancy and delicate. And completely unlike herself. Not that that's a bad thing. It's just different. Maybe in another life - the life she had before her mind was erased - she would've liked this. Probably less than a fifty percent chance. She feels like a recipe for disaster. No room to move, no room to breathe.
Seeing her reflection when Patterson and Zapata finish with the make up is startling. She's examined her body every day looking for something - anything - to help her figure things out. This? This is almost disorienting even though she craves being normal, wants to be some vestige of the girl he knew in his childhood.
She strides purposefully toward the bullpen, stopping in her tracks when she sees Weller talking to Allison Knight. The tux he wears is impeccably tailored, it molds to his shoulders and tapers at his waist. Her tongue slips unconsciously over her lip at the same time he turns to her, his mouth dropping open slightly.
A faint smile curves her lips when he glances up at her, the conversation stopping. He doesn't take his eyes off of her for a second and the wonder she sees makes her uncomfortable enough she finally looks away. Rambling uncontrollably, she's unsure if it's better or worse that they aren't alone, that Allison stands there like an intruder.
"Don't take your eyes off of each other," she says, momentarily confusing Jane. But then they're isolated in the elevator and all she sees, hears, smells is Kurt Weller. He turns to her, reminding her that the assassins were wearing wedding bands. As he lifts her hand, goosebumps rise at the slightest touch and she tries to steady the tremble of her fingers.
He's slipping on his own ring when she's overcome with another flash of memory. She's in bed, pinned beneath her lover experiencing a kiss that's almost visceral. The tree tattoo again. Another ring, a different ring. Tears. Loss.
Rings. She glances at the pair on her finger and the thick thick platinum band on his own hand. He lifts her from the wreckage of her own thoughts with his words. "This is going to be different, Jane." His eyes are lowered now and she has a chance to really look at him. It's almost a relief because she knows they are so green she could hardly pay attention to what he's saying. "I need you to trust me. If we can't make this look real, we're dead before help can get to us."
She nods, overwhelmed and unsure exactly what to say. They fall into their roles easily, doing couples' things - his hand on the small of her back, hers seeking his as they settle into the backseat of the limo. Giving up their phones means being untraceable. They're on their own. Their gazes lock as they head for a waiting helicopter hoping the team can find a way.
The chopper touches down on a small island. Chin up, back straight, she tells herself. His hand is in hers, he's pulling her to her feet. He makes a show of lifting her down as security approaches them. Their hands are in the air. A man pats Weller down and then slides his hands over Jane's body.
"Enough." The word is simple and cold. Weller repeats it and things get physical when the guy doesn't stop. Even as the tiny hairs on the back of her neck bristle at the possessive display, she tries to get the situation under control and protect her partner by pointing out it's security's job to check them out. They're unarmed with no reason to antagonize the enemy. It's hard to maintain focus on the mission when he tells her, "You're my wife."
Even though she isn't his anything, the words make her warm. Or maybe it's the way his hand rides her back as he stands close. Is the intensity heightened by the danger of the situation? Or is being alone with no back up and no one watching lending reason to being this way? Does it even matter?
"I think we should try to blend in," he says, guiding her over objections. There's a twinkle in his eyes when he points out she's constantly learning about herself and her capabilities. It's nice, having his trust and having him believe in her. Especially when she isn't sure she believes in herself.
They move as a matched set, completely in sync like they've been together for years rather than a few months. Maybe it's their past. Maybe it's the instant connection she felt with him as she touched his face in the interrogation room when she didn't have any knowledge or memory of him. If he was jealous outside, she becomes a little envious thinking of the way he was with Allison. The difference is his concern was an act. Hers isn't. She doesn't know what rankles her more, that Weller was with the pretty marshall or that he can remember his relationship while she can't remember any relationships of her own.
Either way, the emotions that fill her need to be processed and sorted. She gazes up at him with admiration and hope. There are times it's easy to look at him, to hold eye contact even when his lips twitch and he smiles at her. Confessing that she's had memories of being engaged makes her feel shy and insecure of his reaction. His hands tighten and his eyes don't leave her face. She feels the possession he took of her outside. And this time it isn't for someone else's benefit. He was choosy? Would he ever choose to be with someone like her? An enigma?
"What did you remember?" Just like that he draws her gaze to his and makes it impossible for her to look away. Yes, she remembered moments and fragments, but nothing seemed as powerful or moving as the simple act of being in his presence. Somehow giving the ring back makes sense even out of context and not knowing the full story of what happened.
It'll be that moment that sticks with her later. Not the fighting or the mission, not even the way they move in sync without thinking about it. The fact the she was more comfortable wearing a pretend ring than she felt wearing one that should've meant everything. Well. At least until she's running across the grass to get to the pool house. In heels. While being shot at. Hard not to remember something like that.
Back at the office, she's approached by Allison. What the woman says to her is unexpected given the last two times Jane has run into her she's been cozying up to Weller. "He's got a few walls that may never come down and he's maybe the most introverted person I've ever met. Aside from that, you won't find a better man."
But Jane already knows that. She's figured that much out for herself. Kurt Weller is a far better man than he gives himself credit for. And she may be one of his walls. Losing Taylor Shaw factors into the man, the agent, he's become. He may be closed off, but can you blame someone for shutting the door on something that causes pain?
Giving the rings back - jewelry that held no significance outside of the role she played - hurt more than the memory of returning her engagement ring to a fiancé she doesn't remember. Removing the makeup covering the tattoos is almost bittersweet because it strips away the few hours she almost felt normal.
But having pizza and beer with the team? That's something. It's almost family. Closeness? Having people who care about you and have your back? That means everything and a pang of sadness hits her because this feels completely new, like even if she remembered everything with perfect clarity she's never had this or anything like it.
When the call comes, all the air in the room disappears. The peace and excitement of the moment evaporates as they race to take Patterson to the hospital. Jane feels like an outsider. She hangs in the back as Mayfair's arms wind around the girl and the others stand around in shock and disbelief.
She's the first to leave. Feeling guilty, she grabs a cab in front of the hospital and heads home. For a place that felt so warm and full of life an hour ago, it feels stale. Abandoned pizza boxes and half empty beer bottles litter the table. She should clean up and put things away, but she can't bring herself to do more than get into the shower and let her tears swirl down the drain with the water and soap.
The second time she dreams about him, it's that they've had a fight. She's done something dangerous and even though she isn't exactly sure what, she knows he's mad. There's a deep growl to his voice when he corners her. She blinks up into his green eyes as he backs her against a wall in the locker room and she has to drop her gaze to the twitch in his jaw because it's too intense to look at him.
"I could've lost you," his tone is rough and filled with emotion. All over again. She hears the words he leaves out crystal clear as her hands unconsciously slide up his pectorals trying to keep him at bay but longing to pull him close enough they press together.
"But you didn't." The answer is defiant and she shakes her head, still not looking at him. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters but what he does next, the way he takes devastating command of her senses and renders her far more lost than the drugs that wiped her memories with a single, bone-melting kiss.
It's heavy, his tongue demanding as it twists around hers and explores her mouth. Heaven. He tastes like heaven and the home she can't remember. For a moment she allows herself to relax into his embrace. He wraps his arms around her and her own are pinned to his chest. Deep, wet, hungry... and cold. She can feel the heat and passion bubbling just under the surface but he won't let it flashover.
"Let me in," she cries, pounding her fists against his chest and trying to free herself from his hold. She's filled with frustration as she throws his words back at him. "I'm here. I'm here with you, for you."
She sits upright in bed gasping for breath. It's dark except for the streetlight peeking through the curtains. Her heart is pumping like she's run a marathon. When it quiets, she realizes the banging sound in her dreams - the sound that forced her back to consciousness - wasn't her pummeling his chest. It's the door. Her door. Heavy fists pounding so brutally she can hear it from her bedroom. Grabbing her robe, she hurries downstairs.
"Sir, sir, you'll have to come back in the morning," she hears her security detail say.
"Jane? Jane, please..."
Weller? She opens the door and finds the hero looking broken. His hand is bloody and she can smell the bourbon on his breath. "Guys, it's okay. Really."
Weller doesn't wait for the green light from the security detail. He pushes her inside, slams the door closed and wraps his arms around her, tucking her head in the crook of his neck. It takes her a moment to realize he's crying, his body trembling slightly as his lips crush against her temple and his fingers thread into her hair. "I needed to see you," he says in a tone she's never heard him use. There's a long pause and she waits for him to continue. "This whole thing with Patterson..."
Pulling back, she cups his face and tries to make him look at her. His eyes are cast downward and she rubs her thumb along his cheek. "Talk to me, Kurt. I'm here."
Guilt, betrayal, confusion. A hundred different emotions play over his features as his hand curls around her neck. "I can't lose you, I just can't."
He kisses her then - really kisses her, not with a caress of his eyes or the soft brush of his fingers, but with his mouth - his lips taking possession of hers like a man starved for air. He drinks the oxygen from her lungs and cradles her tenderly even as his tongue desperately plunders her mouth. She's consumed by the scent of his cologne and the taste of bourbon on his breath.
Panting, her green eyes flutter to his when they pull apart. He looks wild, lost. She's never seen him so out of control. Tense, yes, but never like he might single-handedly tear the world apart. "What happened after I left?"
Weller rubs his jaw and his neck. He paces her tiny living room like a caged animal and she bites her lip, dropping to sit on the edge of the sofa. "That's the problem, Jane. You left. I didn't know where you were and I couldn't look for you because I had to take care of the team."
Twisting the sleeve of her robe, she waits for him to finish because the look he shoots her when she opens her mouth tells her he isn't done. When he does pick up again, he sounds like he's far away as he stares out the window into the glow of a streetlamp. The words roll off his tongue with ease, as if he's thought of little else. "The closer we get, the more I want you," he swallows then and she knows the admission comes at a high price. "Jane. Taylor. It doesn't matter who you are, I want you."
She's on her feet in an instant. It takes nothing for her to go to him. She tips her face in effort to meet his gaze, blinking in confusion. "And that's a bad thing?"
He digs the heel of his hand into his eye and tightens his jaw. He's shutting down and she knows it. She can't let it happen. Rubbing his shoulders, she stands behind him. His breathing is labored as he mumbles a file number. She's examined every inch of her skin looking for something familiar, looking for an answer or clue. She knows the number is one of her tattoos.
"Patterson lost David. Mayfair is hiding things," he breathes. "What if you're next? What if I can't protect you?" Weller moves closer, cupping her cheek and looking directly into her eyes. "You're my blind spot, Jane. All I see is you and they're starting to notice."
The explanation falls short. He's not telling her everything, but he's more open than he's been before. She takes it all in - not just the details but the hurt and pain in his voice. For the first time he's letting go of control. He came to her, for her, because he needs her as much as she needs him. Maybe more. "What if you're wrong? More than once you've been the key and more than once we've saved each other. Stop making excuses."
Slipping her hand into his, she turns for the stairs and feels him hold his position. He swallows and shakes his head. "I should go."
Alcohol. He thinks he's had too much for them to be alone, for them to have this conversation. Both of them are compromised, but for different reasons. Suddenly, she feels more shy than she had in the fancy dress. It's an odd sensation because Weller makes her feel safe and - like it or not - he's seen every inch of her body naked, if only in images. She feels exposed and finds she doesn't care.
They remain frozen for a moment and the way they look at each other isn't unlike her dream. Fingers hanging linked between them, their arms swing slightly. Cautiously and through a veil of lashes rather than directly, she looks at him and appeals to his ego. "Stay with me. I don't wanna be alone."
The first time he spends the night is like peeling back the layers of an onion. He follows her up to her room and takes off his shoes and jacket. In turn, she drops her robe. His wallet and keys hit the nightstand and he takes off his belt and his button down, but not his tshirt or jeans. It makes her smile because she knows he's putting her security over his comfort. Even though it's almost 2AM and the alarm will go off at 6, she knows whatever sleep she gets will be the best she's gotten in this whole ordeal. Because of him, because he's here.
He insists on being the one near the door. At first she almost protests, but then just nods silently. Settling in, she closes her eyes when she feels the bed dip. She isn't sure how this is supposed to work, if they'll hold each other or simply share space. Quickly deciding she's alright with either, she holds her breath.
Kurt Weller is not a small man, but she's taller than average. Still he's big and broad, and the way his muscular body folds around her makes her feel tiny and protected. The reaction of her own body - the unconscious wiggle of her hips to get close - makes his hand fall to her waist. He doesn't say her name or offer any kind of warning. He simply holds steady and kisses the back of her neck just below the oil derricks.
The scar. What is air and will she ever draw another breath? The flick of his tongue over that spot makes her shiver. Neither of them says a word. She tries to hold still, afraid if she doesn't she'll find she's dreaming again. His fingers move over the bird on her neck, tracing the pattern in a way that makes her feel like she could fly. While she feels his breath, warm and steady on her back, all she can hear is the thundering of her own heart.
The way he traces the inked marks not hidden by the thin cotton of her tank top - images he's seen hundreds of times - is quite possibly more intimate than if they were naked or making love. A million and one questions swirl in her mind, but she doesn't dare voice them. His hand massages her shoulder and she feels her eyes grow heavy. His fingertips travel down her arm under the covers and her breath catches when his palm comes to rest against the flaming rose above her navel.
"Wel..." she isn't sure what to call him. She isn't sure about anything right now, how could she be with his hands brushing her skin beneath her shirt? Rolling toward him, she touches his face much the way she did in interrogation as his fingers tangle in her hair.
His tongue flicks over his lip and he pulls her in. Kissing him is becoming familiar, addicting. He pins her under his weight and she pulls at his tshirt, her fingers digging into his back. It should be a crime for a man's skin to be so soft and smooth. Tight muscle ripples beneath her palms.
And then she's over him and he's returning the favor. The coarse hair on his chest tickles her bare breasts, hardening her nipples and making her gasp. He takes advantage, kissing her deeply as his hand finds the curve of her bottom and he groans as they grind together. "Kurt."
"Do you..." he pauses briefly in a flurry of kisses to her neck. "...want me..." His tongue slips along the line of her clavicle. "...to stop?"
Stop? Was he out of his mind? Instead of answering, she nips his lip and manages to get a hand between his thighs. Her palm slides upward, cupping and caressing before popping the button on his jeans. The noise he makes sends a shiver down her spine.
At first it's awkward. Stripping clumsily out of the rest of their clothes, bumping noses and foreheads. Intoxicated by alcohol and each other, they fall together seeking proof of life. Imperfection is bliss. Far from a perfect encounter, it's very real and it makes Jean feel things far beyond the magnitude of what she felt in her dreams. If she is his oxygen, Weller is her spark, igniting the kind of passion she hadn't dreamed existed throughout her entire body.
To sleep, to dream. In the aftermath, both seem possible in Weller's arms. She does sleep, hard and deep, but not until after she's sure he's drifted off. She knows by the change in his breathing but stays completely still long after his fingers slow to a stop and end their caress. Peace. She feels at peace.
Until she wakes up. Alone. His clothes are gone.
Then she smells it. Coffee and bacon, and something else, something sweet. Barely bothering to dress, she makes her way down to the kitchen. He's there, sleeves rolled up with a smile on his face as he flips pancakes in the lonely skillet she'd seen in the cabinet by the stove. "I thought we could both use breakfast."
Pinching her lips together, she nods and rubs a non-existent smudge on the countertop with her fingers. She can't help but wonder if he thinks what happened was a mistake. If it would've happened without the emotional turmoil and fear of loss.
"What's wrong, Jane?" he asks, tipping his head as he removes the pan from the heat and switches off the burner.
She tries to force a smile, her arms winding around her middle. "It's nothing."
"You're worried about last night." Pulling her impossibly close, he speaks softly. His posture is relaxed though she wonders if he'd prefer to keep some emotional distance. "But you're wrong. The closer we've gotten, the harder it's been not to touch you." His breath fans her ear. "The more I touch you, the more I want to." His hand dances up her bare arm. The way he looks at her when he lifts his head makes her understand what Patterson said about a guy's eyes or smile melting a girl's underpants. "The closer we get, the more I'm terrified you're going to vanish and when you left last night..."
Blinking up at him, she's frozen in place. His hands cup her face and press into her lower back. "I decided I was tired of fighting to stay away when I want to be close to you."
If the first time he kissed her was desperate and full of longing, this kiss is enough to steal her soul. She kisses him back, her hand curling around his neck. Overwhelmed by all the sensations - the tickle of his hair on her palm, the heat of his mouth, the almost electrical current that hums through her body - and at risk of melting into a puddle at his feet, her hand fists in the front of his shirt and she presses as close as she can get.
Weller doesn't miss a beat. His tongue smoothes over hers and he maneuvers her against the doorframe, his arm tightening around her as they fight to catch their breath. "I meant what I said last night. The more I get to know you," he hushes over her lips, a breath away from another kiss. "The more I realize it doesn't matter whether or not you're Taylor Shaw. I can't lose you." Growing even more serious, he stares into her eyes in a way that turns her world upside down. "The closer we get, the more sure I am no one else will ever be enough."
A/N: Did you solve the anagram in the title?