#blindspotfic

In the ambulance vehicle Kurt went, and found Jane sitting with an ice bag being pressed against the left side of her face. "Sorry for that," he murmured as he tucked the mess of her hair behind her ears.

She looked up at him with her non-swollen eye and put up a small, forced smile. "I'm okay. It barely hurts, I promise."

The tips of his fingers had trailed down her neck by now, and he said, "That's because of the 600 milligram tablet of Brufen they had you swallow."

"Well, then that's good!" She drew a deep breath and lifted her free hand atop his own. "Our date still stands, huh? We're still going to have that dinner at the French restaurant, right?"

"No. Another time," he sighed, and his heart felt as though being physically stung at saying that.

"Kurt…but we made a reservation this time!"

His blue eyes bore into hers, full of pity and fear and exhaustion, and love—always love. "Doesn't matter. Your injury is no joke. We're going home so you can rest."

"I said I'm okay! And I'm starving."

"I'll make you something to eat at home," he promised, his thumb brushing against the tender skin of her neck.

She put the ice bag aside, lowered her head, and blinked several times to lose the burning sensation and get the tears under control. After a moment she surfaced, a frown clung to her face. "You know, we've been saying 'another time' for the past two weeks."

"I know, Janie… We've been unfortunate. I'm sorry. But the headache will be tenfold worse if you don't rest. So, just let me help you out of here and take us home."

She said nothing when he secured a protective arm around her back and walked her the paces to their car then helped her get comfortable in the passenger seat. The first half of the drive home went quiet, save for the hisses Jane occasionally let out, at which Kurt's heart sank. In the second half, she was feeling completely numb, all over her body, and might as well have fallen unconscious if the bag of ice she'd been holding to her swollen eye hadn't agitated her when it started leaking drops of iced water all over her neck, chest, and jeans.

"I think that…I need another ice bag. This one is leaking," she said between gritted teeth, and Kurt immediately nodded, offered some reassurance by patting her on the upper thigh. "Alright. Alright. I'll get you that. Right now. Hold on."

He made a stop at the nearest drugstore, though before he hopped out of the car, he asked Jane, "Need anything else besides that?"

"No. No. Just that."

Only when she heard the door being slammed by Kurt did she let out a loud groan she'd be holding back, and threw the broken ice bag to the dashboard. The pain was getting worse by every passing second; it was the kind of pain that time seemed to stop. She steeled herself for a minute, two, three, and then thought, how am I supposed to keep up with this pain for the rest of this damn day? God. If she was to survive it, she'd need numerous ice bags to cover her whole face with them, and a package or two of Brufen—which she should've told Kurt to bring with him, but… She released another loud groan, and the urgency she felt afterward made her get out of the car and into the store Kurt was at to get everything she needed herself.

There, she stumbled across Kurt about to grip what seemed like a package of painkillers? And were these two or three bags of ice in his other hand? She couldn't quite tell, and so she went straight to him.

"Worraya doin' here? You okay, Jane?" he blurted, leaving whatever he was about to grip and gripping her arm instead. Oh, love. There were also bruises already forming right below the purple skin of her swollen eye.

"Did you need anything else?"

"Yeah. Just a… Some more Brufen, please, and lots of ice bags. Lots of them." She fumbled in her words, and Kurt regripped her even harder by the arm his knuckles turned white only so he could keep her still—because by now she was shaking, her eyes fluttering.

"K. K. I've got that for you. Now go back to the car. Can you go there by yourself?"

She nodded, and as he loosened his grip around her arm, Kurt noticed that there was a woman glaring at him so intensely with an apoplectic, contorted face. Though once he glared back, she pretended she was busy and walked the same way Jane had just passed by: to the gate.

Weller had never been this fast as he gripped the nearest two packages of Brufen, dealt with the cashier in three seconds, and jogged to the gate, where he saw the same damn woman speaking to Jane face-to-face.

"Ma'am, stay away from my wife!" Kurt shouted, willing himself for an ambush or something even worse at the scene before him, as common and mundane as it was. He stopped between Jane and the woman, who jerked back.

"What the hell do you want?" he said in a voice that spoke volumes about how heated he was.

"Kurt…," Jane tried to say.

"You're an asshole. A piece of garbage. I hope you die right here and now," the woman snapped at Kurt, and then pointed an index finger at Jane, who was shaken and in a total agony and could barely hold herself together, and said, "And you…you don't deserve this! I've been in your place once. I've been just like you. But thank God I got away, and you can, too." The woman was seconds away from bursting into tears. But then she hastened on her way without a glimpse back at them then was no longer seen.

"What the hell was that?" Jane asked with a puzzled look. He looked down at her and raised his brows in exhaustion. "Let's just get in the car."

Once back in the car and out of the parking lot, Jane blurted, "What just happened back there, Kurt?"

His eyes on the road, Kurt mumbled, "Well, that woman thought that I'm a jackass and abusive to you."

"What?" Her eyes widened. "That didn't even cross my mind!"

"Well…"

She took a new ice bag and pressed it against her swollen eye, then stared at Kurt with her fine eye for a full minute as he drove. "You're upset now?"

"I'm."

"Kurt, since when do we care what people think of us?"

"Since they start seeing me as that type of man. I never want to be seen as that type of man."

"We know the truth, Kurt. And so does everyone we care about. You are not that type of man. Are you hearing me?"

He only nodded.

"Everyone who knows you knows what kind of man you really are. And that's what matters. You're a good man, Kurt. A great husband. An incredible father."

"Thanks, love."

"I'm just saying facts here!" She tried a smile when she saw his faint smile. "And that woman, she was absurd."

"I feel deeply sorry for her. She must've really been traumatized by an abuser before. Hence why she seemed impulsive and hateful of me when she saw your injury, and couldn't interpret our case other than the way she did."

"If that's the case, then I'm deeply sorry for her too. And I'm sure, if she'd known what happened behind this black eye, how we literally saved Manhattan from blowing up today, and had to postpone our 'special date' because of all that, she'd would've been so, so sorry for us, too…"

Kurt sniggered then, and Jane fought between laughing and groaning.

"It's not like I wanted to postpone our special date earlier today, you know. We're still going. But not until you get better."

"Yeah, I know. And, I'll admit, my headache is getting the best of me at this point…"

"It'll get better, Janie."

"It better get better…"

She cried quietly, even soundlessly, as she saw flashes of the nightmare in her vision, and endured the pain all alone. She shed a great amount of unbidden, salty tears, like she'd never done before, and they easily slid from her eyes to her cheeks, down her neck, before dampening the pillow. It was too much. The nightmares; the reality; the misery; the pain; the could have happeneds.

A full minute passed, two, three, then she had the slightest courage to place a shaking, cold hand on her wound beneath the sweater, and found out that the bandage was soggy, sloppy. There must be blood, lots of it, it must be bleeding again, she thought. Goddamnit.

When she pressed on it in an attempt to stop it, helpless yet brave, she was rewarded with such sharp, fast pain—as fast as the speed of light. Someone else might've screamed their heart out at that, but she didn't. She swallowed it, as her breathing got heavier, her heart skipped a beat, and her eyes squeezed tight in pain that seemed to transport her to another state, one in which everything, even the past she'd been working so hard to forget, seemed to fade into a gray watercolor wash.

"Kurt," she whispered, or tried to, withdrawing her hand from beneath the sweater. But when he didn't seem to respond, she whispered his name again and again and again, like a prayer, her voice needy, cracking, and scared. "Kurt…Kurt…Kurt."

It took Kurt some time to come to consciousness, and realize that his name was being repeated in the present, softly, and that the voice was Jane's, his Jane, not from the nightmare where he was being restricted to a chair by the enemy, unable to move, helpless by all means. But then he turned over like the world was coming to an end and propped himself up on his elbows, his mind fuzzy for the first seconds before it became alert. Wasting no more second, he stumbled on his way down to Jane on bed. "You okay?" he blurted.

"No… My wound…" Despite all the sweat she had exuded by now, she was shivering when he laid a hand on her, and in the semidarkness, she took a glimpse of his eyes and saw warmth, life, hope. He, from his point of view, saw tears shimmering in her eyes. Saw the pain, too. His heart sank, and quickly yet carefully, with feather-like hands he reveled on her wound, and by now it looked haphazardly covered in red-soaked bandages. Every alarm in his body sat off at the sight, and he clenched his jaw, forced himself to calm down and assess the damage, see his options. He could go and get Patterson and Rich and Tasha right here so he could use the help. But he wouldn't leave her alone while bleeding. He wouldn't. He would have to do this on his own, here and now and quickly.

"Kurt…is it that bad?" Jane asked between gritted teeth. She couldn't bring herself to have a look herself, and now she watched her husband stare down at her with intense concentration while frowning his brows.

"It's bleeding, but I'll clean it, okay?" he told her, before rushing straight to turn on the lights, wash his hands, grip the first aid kit, and return to her in bed. He looked at her face tight in pain and, with shaking hands, he put on a pair of gloves. "It'll be okay, Janie," he reassured her, "It'll sting a little, maybe, but it won't hurt much."

She only managed to nod, deep down knew exactly how much it'd hurt, and it'd be more than just a little. "I'm ready", she confirmed, biting her lip to hold a whimper in so Kurt wouldn't feel bad.

He began with exposing her abdomen to the fullest then, holding his breath, he discarded the bandage, to which she let out a hiss, and her hands flinched, almost pushed his away. But instead she took fistfuls of the blanket beside her, and steeled herself for what was yet to come. After Kurt threw the bloody bandage, and was about to do the cleaning, he looked her in the eye. "You have to tell me when it's painful, Janie," he said, as he breathed and sweated and prayed for her in his head.

"I trust you… It won't be painful," she whispered, eyes only half open, lips pale, forehead creased in a plea for him to get her out of her misery. If he could, he'd have stopped the time, taken away all the pain in a heartbeat. She didn't deserve this. His wife. Jane. Kind. Strong. Lovely. Resilient. Ass-kicker. Beautiful. Unstoppable. Talented. So damn stubborn. But all he could do right now was this, cleaning her wound quickly yet gently before it'd get any worse.

"Stay with me. Keep breathing. It'll be quick," he told her, as he got one of the gauzes wet with saline solution. "You're gonna hate me right now, but try to—"

"I'll never hate you," she rushed to say, shaking her head. "Never."

"You sure?" He began cleaning, gently wiping all the oxidized blood away. Jane winced once that gauze came into contact with the fresh stitches on her abdomen. The skin around the wound was so fragile, so delicate, and it stung like a fire. "Deadly sure."

After stealing one look at her determined face, committing it to memory, Kurt continued, frowning at the way the gauze was already staining with Jane's blood. But he continued, replacing the gauze and wetting it and wiping as needed. She… She was painting by now, her body jolting, and so Kurt wanted to talk her down. "You said…that you are deadly sure you won't hate me? Huh? Even if I might be hurting you now?"

"You're healing me…" she corrected. "I'm…in the safest hands I could ever—" She gasped, aloud and hoarsely, as her head lifted from the pillow. "Fuck—it's painful, Kurt."

"Scale of one to ten?"

"Seven. Eight."

"I'm sorry," Kurt replied. "I'm almost done, I promise. Two more minutes, okay?"

Jane's head fell back to the pillow, and she didn't nod, nor showed any indication that she'd heard him. But she did count to something close to hundred, making herself go slowly. Slowly. Slowly. Slowly. Until she lost count, before losing full consciousness…

It would be the most pleasant way to go, to die in his arms. Her husband. Kurt. Brave. One of a kind. Loving. Caring. Owns the sexiest of smiles. Deadly when needed be. Overprotective. Loyal to the marrow. But it wouldn't be fair to leave him behind, alone, just because things didn't go their way. They were supposed to spend their lives together, share happiness and sadness together, get older together, against all odds. It was true and unfortunate that they may not have everything they used to have: freedom, family, safety, good reputation, property, some kind of control. But truly, they did have everything they needed: each other, and friends for life.

There were fingers brushing against her cheek with surprising gentleness when she fluttered her eyes open, and she hummed—not in pain any more but in contentment. And then, there he was, her guardian angel, wearing a smile that she'd trade the world for it. He inched closer to her in bed.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, just when he reached for her hand and dotted it with kisses.

"Better." Last time she saw the same hand he was kissing now, it was covered with blood. Her own blood. But right now it was clean and warm and being kissed by him.

"How long have I been out?"

"Six hours." He smiled sadly. "Was it that painful?"

"Honestly?"

"Yeah?"

"It was more painful than being shot…and as painful as the surgery. But—"

"I'm sorry."

"Hey, doesn't matter. I'll be okay." She touched his cheek to comfort the two of them. "Really, though, what I would do without you, Kurt?"

"Let's not think about that."

“Something I thought you would like,” he replied, as he quickly grabbed one of the boxes and opened it, revealing some sweetened chicken wings; then another two boxes, noodles with some orange sauce; then the last box, mixed boiled vegetables. The two of them were enveloped in a bubble of this spicy, delicious smell as they settled down on the same table they’d been on some time earlier, and began eating. 

“Something I thought you would like,” he replied, as he quickly grabbed one of the boxes and opened it, revealing some sweetened chicken wings; then another two boxes, noodles with some orange sauce; then the last box, mixed boiled vegetables. The two of them were enveloped in a bubble of this spicy, delicious smell as they settled down on the same table they’d been on some time earlier, and began eating. 

“Mmm. This is amazing,” Jane commented, her mouth full of food yet to be chewed. But she was genuinely impressed by this food, though it wasn’t her first time eating Chinese. Oscar looked up from his own take-out box only to say, “It's yakisoba... your favorite.” And then, he noticed her pause, seemingly struggling to swallow the chunk in her mouth. 

“Something wrong?”

She managed to swallow it down, finally. “It's just that, um...,” she tried to explain, “you know more about me than I do.” 

He’d been already looking at her, but by now his look turned into a stare, and she stared right back. “What was I like before all of this?” she asked, deep down hoping that he wouldn’t mentally recoil, because she knew  how much he hated those endless questions of hers. But then he was calm, and she couldn’t believe it when she caught a quick snippet of his chuckle at her question. 

“You were compassionate,” he answered, his lips smiling, his eyes smiling, at which she felt such a great sensation rising in her chest. He continued: “Loyal, patient. So damn stubborn.”

She had to frown for a moment, at the last one. “I'm not that stubborn!” 

“Yeah, said every stubborn person ever,” he retorted, and then again, she saw him chuckle for the second time tonight, to which she couldn’t help but grin herself, and ask some more; she didn’t want to break the momentum they built together so far. “You. What were you like?” 

It was then when he hesitated, outwardly, his teeth scraping over his lower lip, as though the answer would never come—even his hesitation spoke volumes, and so she effortlessly sensed it. “If it makes you uncomfortable, Oscar, then…” The last thing she wanted was to press him into doing anything. Not now. Not like this. 

His name, as she said it, made his heart skip a beat. Oh God, it sounded so welcoming coming from her mouth he almost kissed her on the lips for it.

“No. Not at all,” he mumbled. 

“Okay...” 

Although she still wanted to ask things, say things, she held it back, as challenging as it’d always been, to see him within hand reach, a treasure of information about her and whatever life she had before, and only being able to do a little about it.

They picked through their take-out boxes again, and after a minute, or maybe two, at the sight of that exposed giant tree tattoo in his inner arm, she couldn’t hold it back—it seemed her only chance! “Your tattoo…”

“Yeah?”

“Why a giant tree, though?” she continued, the look in her face amused. 

He shrugged, thoughtful. “It’s… steady, giant, and it can be a home, for birds, for example!”

Jane nodded, then gestured her hand at herself. “Feel free to ask me about any of my tattoos, though I won’t be able to tell you what they mean. There’s so many of them, none of which means anything to me!” She attempted levity, one Oscar didn’t smile at, to which she’d been wishing that he’d, wishing that he’d  laugh, even, and she’d hear the sound of his laughter, for once. But instead he sighed then said, “Well, actually… Yes, I know that there’s one meant something to you.”

Her eyes flew to his. “Which one?” And he could tell that she knew no patience when she inched somewhat toward him. 

“The bird tattoo… You actually wanted that tattoo by choice.”

“I wanted that!” she echoed. 

“You did.”

“Does that mean that… that it has nothing to do with the cases?”

He nodded. “Yeah, it has nothing to do with them. The tattoo is yours.” Ours, he wanted to say. 

“What did it mean to me, then?” she asked, her eyes wide, unwavering, and he sniffed, bit his lips, and looked away. How would he sound like, if he told her that it meant she’d wanted a piece of him, to remain with her forever; that she hadn’t wanted to forget him, even when she was supposed to forget everything she knew, or felt; that she’d been hoping she’d remember him once she saw it, or touched it? How would he sound like, look like, if he told her all that? 

And despite himself, he couldn’t even begin to imagine what she would do or say when she knew—but she wasn’t meant to know this in the first place. God.

“You wanted to, at least, have something of your own, before you left, ” he said, after some time. And it was true, generally speaking. 

She put down the box of food between them,  feeling her insides twist with guilt as she sat there beside him, completely silent. By now she’d figured it out: that memory, that sketch he was working on, that sad look on his face, that engagement ring she passed to him, the dark atmosphere, and the ‘it can be a home, for birds, for example!’ he’d said. It was all because he designed it, the bird tattoo she now had on her neck, to be there forever. It’d been basically his. But then she’d wanted to make it hers. That, eventually, would make it theirs. It sounded so tragic, all that he had to go through because of her, and yet it was only fragments that she remembered so far but not the whole picture. 

“You okay?” He cut through her thought, and she could do nothing but nod to that. Then, he too put down his food, pulled a phone out of his pocket and scrolled down, up, down, then hit play to a sweet song. 

“What’s that?” Jane frowned, but Oscar smiled at her face, helped her get on her feet, wrapped an arm around her middle and began swaying, slow, taking her along with him, as the song played out around them for what seemed like a whole night. 

The two were in the middle of unpacking the boxes they brought up with them from their old apartment in New York all the way to the new one in Colorado, which, after managing to unpack the majority of the boxes and placing their contents ever since morning, it finally started to feel like home. Like their old apartment in New York. 

Doing so had been so fun at first, each one was having a glass of red wine in hand and there was loud music playing in the background and, since there weren’t curtains covering the windows just yet, there was the beautiful addition of bright and warm sunlight streaming inside the spacious front room that felt so rewarding and motivating. But when the sun went down, taking with it its light and warmth, the work got monotonous, and so by now they were both exhausted and hungry. 

Jane was also confused now. 

She looked down at all the boxes scattered on the floor around her, which were almost empty by now, and she felt the world spinning around her in confusion and fear for having been unable to locate her sketchbook among all these boxes. 

“Why? Couldn’t you find it?” Asked Kurt, seemingly confused too as he approached her.

Creases were starting to form on her forehead as she shook her head in confusion. “No,” she said quietly, then jumped from one box to another, double checking each one, randomly, quickly and with both hands, as if she were digging into a hole. And then, after all of that, which was in a span of thirty seconds, she shook her head yet again, though this time in disappointment, and looked up at Kurt in a plea for understanding. “I don’t know why I can’t find it because it should be here. I put it here. I put all my small things here, and I didn’t have a lot of things!” 

Kurt was standing right before her by now, hunching over to check inside the boxes again. It was helpless, he knew; she’d already rummaged in all those boxes with eager hands and big eyes and yet found nothing... But if there was a one-in-a-million chance, he would absolutely take it when it came to her.

When his eyes, wide open, met hers, he suggested, “Okay, maybe you’ve just got confused. Try to remember where you’ve last seen it.” She swallowed hard and tried to do as told, mouth slightly open. She settled her gaze at a random spot on his chest as both of them stood close against one another, then she pushed her mind so hard to visualize where she’d last seen the sketchbook and what she was doing, so she could retrace her steps in the process and hopefully remember something. 

But it was after a long, unbearable moment when Jane pushed her lower lip out in a sad pout and gave a shake of her head. Kurt hugged her loosely then. “It’s okay, we still have another set of boxes to be delivered here tomorrow morning.” He reminded her. “Hopefully we find it within one of the boxes then.”

Jane pulled back to look up at him, the sad look remained on her face. “But those coming boxes only have the kitchen supplies!” 

“You don’t know, maybe you forgot it there!”

“It’s not possible... I put it here,”

“Everything is possible.” He encouraged, then added, “Aren’t you hungry by now, though? Because I’m so hungry! How about pb&j for dinner, huh?”

“I don’t mind.” Jane muttered with a shrug. 

Together they decided to call it a day after dinner and climbed into bed, crawling close to each other as they lied down against the mattress. Their foreheads were touching as they shared a loving gaze, then Kurt whispered, “Can I get my good night kiss, or you don’t feel like—”

“No—yes, of course you’re getting your good night kiss!” She rushed to say, reassuring him just before she smiled the tiniest of smiles and kissed him hard on the lips, to which he kissed her back even harder. After that, she placed her hand over his arm that had been wrapped around her waist beneath the blanket, lifted it, rolled over to her side, and again let his arm be wrapped around her waist. This was how she’d always loved to sleep with him: she’d turn her back to him and he’d take the cue and cuddle her from behind with a light arm across her waist beneath the blanket and a soft kiss right behind her ear that would make her hum and snuggle deeper into his embrace until they’d look like two spoons in a drawer, very tight against each other. 

As she closed her eyes and tried to sleep, hoping to raise up to a promising morning that would bring with it her sketchbook, she could swear she saw the vague afterimage of the sketchbook in her eyes, but then she opened her eyes and only saw the darkness of the bedroom...

She didn’t own a lot of things, really. The only things she owned and loved so much were that sketchbook and her marriage ring. The engagement ring was as if glued to her finger ever since she had worn it years ago. As for the sketchbook, she had always made sure to keep it within her hand reach, though this time around it oddly disappeared! 

It was the very first purchase she made solely for herself when she started to receive a regular paycheck after working formally for the FBI. At first she didn’t know what to do with such a decent amount of money since she’d already been provided with a place to stay in, clothes, a cell phone and food—usually her detail had dropped food at her place without even asking for anything back, which made her really embarrassed.

It could be the crack of dawn or early morning when Jane fluttered her eyes open the next day, and after a long moment of gazing at Kurt’s sleeping face, she gave him a soft kiss on the temple then eased herself out of bed. With her eyes half closed, she managed to step the few paces toward the bathroom, rinsed her face in the sink, brushed her teeth and finally put on a comfy sweater she gripped from the hanger. 

Yawing, she stumbled across the front room that was messy with boxes they hadn’t even bothered to flatten or push away last night, until she made it into the kitchen. There she stood in the center, stretched her neck, and yawned some more with her eyes pressed close. When she reopened her eyes, the sight of a can of cocoa shoved in the far corner suddenly inspired her. And so, as if drawn by a magnet, she stepped toward the refrigerator, opened it and examined its contents, though there wasn’t much to see. There was random stuff and among them was a brand-new bottle of milk, which she only needed to fix a cup of hot cocoa for now.

She took it out then brought up a pan. There she poured some of the milk, dissolved cocoa powder, and finally put it on the stove to simmer. Standing with folded arms in the dim lighting in the kitchen, she stared down at the pan as the milk boiled within it, and after a full minute of waiting, small curls of steam rose into the air and the scents of cocoa powered revolved all around her, to which she felt torn between wanting to savour it immediately or just stand there and inhale it. But she awaited a bit more. Next she poured everything into an oversized cup with a faint smile. 

Warming her fingers with the cup, she made her way to the dining table, then settled on a seat there as she began taking small sips of the hot cocoa before it had even cooled off, to which it took her by surprise at first at how hot it was, scalding even. 

During such times, when she woke earlier than she would and was by herself, she would bring up her sketchbook and sketch on it whatever she was feeling at the given moment. It was the perfect timing and place to do so; her thoughts would emerge so originally in the early mornings, they wouldn’t be conflicted nor affected by the day’s activities just yet. 

She hadn’t known how good she was at sketching until one day she held a pencil, a very sharp one, and began sketching without any struggle. Back then, when solving her tattoos had been what her life was basically all about, she used to sketch them individually in hopes of finding any connection that might help figure out what they actually meant. But then as the days passed, she thought she wanted to do something else, something that was in a good way stirring her heart down to the depths, just like the way her spoon was stirring her cup of cocoa now.

And so, with her pencil sharp, she began with a light outline of a face, next she worked on the eyes, which she made them like the shape of almond. She let out a sigh then,  knowing that the eyes must be the toughest part, before continuing with them. She drew the first pupil, purposely making it darker than the eye, then did the same for the other eye. She added a little shading underneath the eyes and from there she started with the nose, extending two lines where the inner corners of each eye were located. 

The rest went easy: she did the eyebrows, the lips, the beard and then the hair, creating a solid and visible looking hairline from the sides of the head. 

It was Kurt’s face that she sketched and it looked impressive at the end. She made him look as if staring at her, and made his expression soft with a faint smile—the way he’d usually look at her. 

It was quiet around her now, not a single sound, until she heard running waters within the bathroom and, a minute later, she saw Kurt emerge and approach her. “Mornin,” he smiled, his face awash with decent sleep, his hair... so fluffy she couldn’t help but think it needed a trim, so badly.

“Mornin,” she replied. 

He bent down and stole his morning kiss from her then hummed. “You taste like a really good hot cocoa!”

“Because I was drinking one.” She told him, showing him her cup, almost empty by now. 

“Can I have the same?”

“Sure.” She got up and started doing the same thing she did earlier, taking the same measurements. 

“Did you sleep well, Jane?” He asked as she waited by the stove for the cocoa to simmer. “Yeah.”

“You don’t look like you slept well.” He claimed. 

“I slept well, Kurt. Now tell me, when is our ship  gonna get here?”

“Maybe after a bit.”

She served him his cocoa in a brand-new cup, and he took it with all smiles after thanking her. 

When their another set of boxes arrived, after some time, Jane tucked all of her hair back behind her ears and, kneeling down, she eagerly began looking thoroughly in each box along with Kurt. As she’d said before, the boxes contain kitchen supplies: dishes, cups, mixing bowls, knives and spoons, a cutting board, blender, vegetable peeler and a number of whisks. 

But even after all this effort, they couldn’t find it, Jane’s sketchbook, among all of those things. 

She stood up on her feet then, and took a deep breath, tired and disappointed, her palm wiping away the sweat on her forehead and her eyes, helplessly, maintained searching in the mess of boxes on the floor. 

“It’s alright, I’ll get you a new one, I promise.” Kurt tried to soothe her, to which she looked up at him and, shaking her head, she complained, “It’s not about getting a new one, Kurt. I need my old one back. It carries lots of memories and...” she trailed off with her head falling down, but after a moment of silence Kurt approached forward until he closed the gap between them and cupped her face in his hands, lifting it to his level. “We will be making new memories here. Beautiful ones.”

“I know, but...there’s just one drawing of you within the sketchbook that I just love so much and I want it back.”

“You have lots of pencils and papers here. You also have me here. I will sit still the whole day so that you can draw me, I really wouldn’t mind, you know me.” He suggested, to which she smiled the way one corner of her mouth tilted up whenever she felt affection for him, then chuckled. “You don’t have to. I can draw you easily without having to look at you.”

He grinned. “Right, because you’re the most talented person I’ve ever met.”

“It’s not wholly because I’m that talented though. I wouldn’t be able to do that with anyone else except for you, because I always have you in my head—this is how and why I drew you in the first place. I know your face very well—even more than my own, I would say—and I know how you would look from every angle.”

He pushed his lower lip out in an impressive pout, feeling awash with affection for her. “You know lots of things about me! Do you also wanna know what I know about you?” He asked, having already slipped both hands from her face down her neck, shoulders, and finally her waist. And before she could say anything in response, he was tickling her there. “I know how to make you laugh, and laugh, and laugh.”

She was laughing then, pleading him to stop it, squirming her body out of his arms, and calling his name aloud and repeatedly, but that was only for him to reward her with more stroking against her waist, the area where he knew was very sensitive for her. She tried to fight his firm grip around her, tried to push him away, tried to run away, but seconds later she was, almost instinctively, clutching into him hard, as if holding for her life, and kept laughing nonstop, like she never had in her whole life, head dropped back exposing her neck for him to bury his face there, mouth open to the fullest, and eyes squeezed. Her laughters rolled about the front room in the early morning, like a child's spinning top, vibrant and heart-warming as it moved around them in its chaotic way. It came in fits and bursts—loud to soft to nothing when she was gasping for breaths in-between, then back to loud again and so on.

Just like this, her previous, sad face was replaced with a happy and laughing one.

He really knew how to butter her up. Always had.

Moments later, newborn cries filled the labor room, and Kurt bursted into tears of relief and joy. He immediately turned his glossy eyes to his wife who was still catching her breath, and in a voice that was almost broken and shaking he told her that they had the most beautiful baby boy ever. Through her exhaustion Jane grinned at him, then she let her eyes leave his to take in her baby that was being carefully put on her bare skin. In that very moment, she couldn't help but cry the sweetest tears she'd never known, all the pain of moments before melting away. He might be only minutes old by now, their baby, but as his tiny mouth widened, he continued crying along with his mother, though his cries were much louder despite his tiny body in comparison to his mother.

All their friends visited later that day, brought gifts, and offered help when needed. And Bethany, with her mother, flew the hundred miles to New York only to see her brother and give him the softest of kisses.

The first two weeks for Jane after having given birth to Peter went so quiet. Peaceful. She spent most days either sleeping, snuggled in bed with her newborn baby pressed so close to her chest she could feel his soft, wet breath, or laying down in a rest position with her newborn baby being still close within her hand reach to anticipate his every need—though he didn't need a lot. Breastfeeding and changing. That was all.

As for Kurt, during those first two weeks, he took a vacation from his regular work to be willingly spending all his time and effort on nursing both Jane and his newborn baby.

"That's the least I could do," he told Jane one morning, as he brought her a fresh meal all the way to bed, to which she smiled before dotting kisses on his hand, that was big, almost the size of his newborn baby.

Peter seemed so quiet, often asleep and would flutter his eyes open maybe twice a day. And during these rare times his parents would circle up around him and gaze down with all smiles, making comments regarding his looks. "He's got your eyes!" Jane chuckled, and Kurt smiled then said, "It's such an honor to acknowledge that."

"For me, it's such a pleasure to acknowledge that I'll have another set of beautiful eyes resembling yours to look at daily," she said with a smirk, and Kurt blushed for a fraction of a second, then kissed his wife, then his son. Alternatively, the two planted soft kisses on the tender skin of their newborn baby, and slid their pinky fingers into his open hands and watched as he responded and curled his little hands around them.

They were the happiest little family, until those first two weeks passed, then they saw hell on earth...

Though healthy, good taken care of, and clean, Peter decided to erupt in prolonged, ear-shattering cries, completed with clenched fists, and flailing legs and an unhappy red face.

They checked his diapers and temperature every hour. They tried direct breastfeeding and got out the thermometer. They cuddled and cooed. They did everything that came to their minds that any newborn baby would need—except if their baby wasn't a normal one and had a supernatural power therefore had special needs or something!

Babies his age cry and fuss sometimes, it's known and normal. But the way their baby did it, never seemed to be anything near normal. It was as if he wanted to suffocate himself and die—for hours he'd cry and resist every effort they make to soothe his tears until his little face was red with his mouth stretching wide and the cries became unbearably louder.

It was stressful, overwhelming, and tiring daily, for Jane and Kurt. They—both of them, adults—couldn't even do anything that seemed to please him. Jane, already having afterbirth pains, had multiple breakdowns a day because of it, and sometimes she covered her ears with a pillow or cried along with him, out of hopelessness. There was a sense of shame and sadness and just those deep emotions that she was very not familiar with when her baby cried like this, nonstop. It was as though he was telling her that he needed help, that he was hurting, but she wouldn't even know how or what to begin with...

And Kurt, every time he tried to hold his crying baby close, bobbing and swaying to unheard music, humming a lullaby, quite composed, quite serene, he could swear his baby's cries got louder at all these attempts. He then would lay him down and make funny faces to get him to laugh, to simply make him feel something different, but still...

God, how could a four-kilo creature make such loud noises? It sounded like the screeching of an angry cat, only growing harsher and louder as Kurt tried his best to subside him.

Just recently, while Kurt alone stayed up the night to accompany Peter as he cried, the bell rang, to which Kurt cursed under his breath, having some ideas of who might be at the door this late hour. This time around, it was again their neighbor, a college student in his twenties who seemed impatient and annoyed as he complained about their baby's loud cries and how it was like listening to nails on a chalkboard.

"I have responsibilities and shit to do and classes to prepare for! I need to get some sleep. I need peace!" He rumbled and rumbled, because it was his right as a neighbor to be given that. Peace.

"Sorry. I know, sorry. He's just...a little sick," Kurt tried to explain himself, and his baby boy, fumbling in his words. Huffing in the other side of the doorway, their neighbor walked away then, and before Kurt closed the door, the urgency he felt was tremendously overwhelming. He wanted to sprint, speed, and hop into the car to zoom with his baby in his arms to the nearest pharmacy and find just the right medicine to cure the problem within him. What the cure was called and how much it'd cost mattered the least to Kurt.

Christ, he had to do something. There must be something serious with him, or else what would trigger this sort of crying? The noise the little one made included a falsetto trilling that did something to him. It seemed to reach into the skull through his ears, to grasp his brain stem, to shake the inner core of their being. Kurt looked down at his son, and although he seemed apoplectic as he cried and screamed, Kurt hugged him tight and promised that he'd do everything to help him as soon as possible.

This Monday evening, after having settled Peter down in his bed and gazed into his angelic, relaxed face as he finally slept, Jane sighed in relief. It was so quiet now, save for his breathing that was merely audible, which sounded nice, knowing he was breathing. Alive. She felt tempted to bend down and kiss each cheek, but she feared it'd make him fuss. Then, as she made her way to the living room, she got a call from Tasha, who'd been calling her every now and then these days, chatting and sharing motherhood tips and tricks.

"Hey! How is it going?" Tasha shouted in enthusiasm. And from the end of the line, Jane's voice came as a sigh, low and sad. "Not good."

"Is everything okay? Is Peter okay?" Tasha worried.

"No, he's...not okay. And we don't even know what's wrong with him. But we've already booked an appointment for him tomorrow's morning to see his doctor."

"What's it with him?"

"We don't even know! He cries a lot. All the time." Jane was at the edge of crying at this very moment, before Tasha rushed to say, "Ohh, your baby is probably colic, Jane."

"What does that mean?"

"It means your baby cries a lot as you just said!"

"But that still doesn't explain why!"

"For no reason, really! He just wants to cry, right?"

"Yeah, exactly! That's all it seems. But how do you know that? Is Scott—or was Scott like that?"

"No, I wouldn't say he was, but I know some parents struggle with that."

"Do you know what they would do to ease their babies? Kurt and I would literally do anything and everything only to..."

"Oh, Jane, listen. Every baby seems to be different. Don't worry about it! He won't stay forever like that! But you should still get him to the doctor to make sure he's actually and physically all fine, and if he was, you may feel relieved, because thankfully he'd only be colic."

"Thankfully?"

"I mean...that sucks, still. But you know that's better than something else. Sometimes serious!"

Jane was silent for a long moment, her mind working fast, and her body started sweating at the thought of Peter seriously sick, and his crying had been indicating something permanent.

"Hey? Are you still there?"

"Hey... yeah,"

"You okay? Or need company? I just snuck out of my place after Scott slept only to get some groceries, but if you need company, I'll be heading to you instead!"

"No, no. Thank you, Tasha. Kurt is actually coming within minutes. And honestly, we haven't had some quiet time together for—I don't even remember for how long! But judging from that, it must have been for a while... Anyway. Sorry, I forgot to ask you about Scott! How is he doing?"

"Ugh, he's fine. He's just addicted to sugar, loves chocolate and candy so much! That's why I don't bring him with me grocery shopping anymore—he knows where to find the chocolate there by now!"

Jane smiled. "At least it makes him happy."

"It actually makes him energetic and annoying at nights. But anyway, I should let you rest. Bye for now, and good night. Also, don't worry much!"

"Okay. Good night."

After some time, the door was opened and there was Kurt emerging through it with many bags of groceries hanging in both hands. "Hey," he greeted, stumbling on his way to the kitchen so he could put the groceries away. Jane watched him do so as she greeted him back with a low voice that he didn't probably hear.

Then, panting, Kurt approached her with easy footsteps. "It's quiet, rarely!" he commented, after having seated next to her on the couch.

"He's asleep."

"Good." Sighing, he shifted here and there until he was lying down, using Jane's lap as a pillow. She looked down at him with a frown as he closed his eyes. "Are you sleeping?"

"I had a rough day..." he mumbled, his eyes still closed.

"Get up, and tell me about it. I'm sure it's much more interesting than mine that I spent it literally just listening to your kid cry."

"When he cries, he's only my kid, huh? Also, don't forget that his appointment is tomorrow morning!"

"I didn't. And, um, I might know what's wrong with him,"

"What's it?" Kurt opened his eyes to the fullest now to look up at Jane. "Um, I was just talking with Tasha before you came, and when I told her, I almost thought she wouldn't believe me, but then she said that Peter might be colic."

"What does that even mean?"

"Meaning that he cries, a lot!"

"Why?"

"I don't know. For no reason? Or maybe it's something phenotypic?"

Kurt winced. "His doctor will know better."

They slept feeling hopeful that night. Ever since they booked that appointment, they had this promising sensation of hope, that they'd know, for sure, what was the problem, therefore fix it—well, or so they thought.

The hope continued to the next day while the doctor looked over their son and examined him carefully. Peter was awake and strangely calm at the time. He didn't have a fever nor had any other sign of illness, the doctor said.

"Just colic," The doctor then added.

Ha! Oh, colic. Great.

The doctor's casual dismissal contrasted with the parents' urgency. "So how do you cure it?" Jane asked impatiently, and she had to cover her mouth and grip then regrip Kurt's hand after the doctor said a cure might not exist, and they'd have to get through it.

The doctor further explained that, statistically, this happens to about one in every five babies in the world, most often in the evenings and nights than mornings in babies aged three weeks to three months. It happens more in countries that are developed than those that aren't, and no one really knows as to why—though at this point they were hardly listening, their inner voice screaming overpowered anything else around them.

They took their baby, went home, and spent the rest of the day listening to Peter wail while the earth spun and the sun set and rose on the other side of the world and wars were won and lost and revolutions happened.

The reality was tough to adapt to, however they were patient, put the maximum effort to give more and have less, of course. Though every time they looked down at him, hushing, his face was unrelaxed, his fists were clenched tight and his abdomen was tense from the discomfort he was undergoing all alone, a four-kilo infant. He really seemed like a very sad baby; there was no light in his eyes, only tears, which reflected on Jane and Kurt's souls, and made them sad parents, too.

They went to ask more pediatricians and friends for help, knowledge. They read more about Baby Colic, seeking any useful tips and tricks. They tried alternative treatments—Kurt swaying all around the apartment to unheard music while holding little Peter to his chest as he wailed, Jane messaging over his back with care and holding him with his bare skin against her own so close to allow him to feel contained, loved. Safe. And yet, it didn't stop. He didn't stop crying, deploying this tool of weaponized sound that was truly like listening to an alarm going off that could drive someone sane and resilient like Jane and Kurt crazy.

In the peak of it it affected their lives: Jane stopped her working-life completely, though she'd, in fact, intended to do so for the first few months of Peter's life only to be spending such a pleasant, lovely time with him in these early stages, and to witness every little change that'd happen to him—but she never had ever thought this would feel like a burden, and the most stressful thing imaginable. After all, she was the one to have mentioned wanting a baby first, not Kurt. What felt like years ago, she'd told him that she wanted a baby with him, that it was the perfect time to do it now, and Kurt didn't really say much in response. Instead, he exchanged loving gazes with her, brought her closer to him, kissed her so deeply she could still feel the staying power of it till this day, and then he made love to her right away. No protection for the first time. It'd been only her and him and pure desire but nothing else. And they'd kept doing the same thing until one day they got what they wanted.

It affected their daily routine: One slept at nights while the other watched after him in another room. They took turns and shifts, not even once they had the slightest sympathy toward each other when they interrupted each other's sleep in the middle of the night to begin handling Peter.

It affected their relationship: They needed each other right at that hard time, Jane and Kurt. But when Kurt came home from work and Jane was wrung out from listening to it for hours, needing hugs and back rubs and words of encouragement, support, instead, they fought. They fought because something horrible was happening to their son and they lacked the power to stop it. They fought because they were frustrated and exhausted. They fought because they were frightened and tense all the time.

More than once Kurt hated the idea of returning back home after work, which went against his every instinct as a parent. As a husband, too. But sometimes—such as this time on Thursday—he felt like, if he went home after this long, unbearable day at work, he might lose his mind. He seriously might. So he called home and explained to Jane that he had some extra pepper work to do and so he might come a bit late. Jane wanted to argue. She wanted to disapprove—because she needed him at home and needed his help immediately. But she wasn't in a position to do so, since Peter's crying voice overpowered hers though she was shouting on the phone as if she were calling from an outdated device from decades ago where the connection was primeval only so that Kurt could hear her...

She just snapped then, after a full minute of trying, hung up and let go of it. It was no use; she'd scream and Peter would scream even louder and Kurt would also scream that he couldn't hear anything of what Jane was saying and it would look as though they were all in a contest...

And then, Kurt, feeling like an asshole driving the car, went to a quiet place and had a few drinks on that Thursday evening, one after another until he felt light-headed, carefree. Of all places nearby he'd chosen a place that was so far away from home, as if trying to get away from his little son's screams, or maybe he was afraid of getting busted by Jane at any given moment.

When he eventually drove home, several hours later, and as he approached the front door, he could hear his own son's howls from outside. His own heart clenched to that, and he wanted to run away already, or close his ears, or simply just sit there at the doorstep and not have to face it.

He unlocked the door and, almost running, he followed the cries to his bedroom. He was stunned for a moment to see both of them crying, Peter hysterically, Jane quietly. What he did next, and without asking what was going on, was take them both in his arms and cry along with them, repeatedly whispering his sorrow in Jane's ear, that he was gone enjoying himself out there while she lived in this chaos all alone.

When Peter ultimately calmed down under his father's repetitive and soothing strokes, both Jane and Kurt had already calmed down. But they didn't say a word afterward. They didn't look at each other, either—she didn't want to see his face and he couldn't look at hers. Instead, they just stared down at him, their little baby, sleeping now. Snoring, even. After all that hysterical crying he let out, now he seemed somehow in ease, his cheeks rosy, his forehead unclenched, his fists open, and his chest rising and falling in a way that was so reassuring.

They kept admiring the rare, beautiful sight of him like that for a while, having almost forgotten about what just happened mere minutes ago, that they, the parents, were both crying along with their baby, that they were completely hopeless. And then, slowly but surely, Peter smiled the tiniest of smiles in his sleep. It was an unconscious smile, they knew, but it put a similar smile on their faces, to have captured that exact moment in the middle of the madness. It spread hope in the air between them, that genuine, small smile of his.

Still silent, still staring down at sleeping Peter, they await another smile to appear on Peter's tiny lips; it'd been something unmatched. But then he didn't. Jane ran a feather-like hand over his head and brushed his soft hair to fix its pattern to one side instead of being flipped in every direction. Kurt, then, reached out for the same hand of hers and took it to him, which made her look up at him, finally, dark circles under her eyes from the same exhaustion daily. It was an unwilling or rather angry look she gave him. But she had to flutter her eyes before shutting them close as he started kissing her on that hand, and inhaling it, and scraping his own growing beard against it.

As much as Jane wanted to withdraw from his touch, and as much as she was truly upset with him now, she tried to find some comfort in this approach. She couldn't remember the last time they had a quiet, intimate moment like this together, and doubted if Kurt could remember. They'd been giving more and having less. They'd been fighting each other and discouraged. They'd been waking up in the mornings to the sound of Peter's cries, and at nights sleeping to the same sound, Peter's cries, and in the hours in between barely catching their breaths. That'd been going on for months now.

She pulled her hand away, after a moment, not aggressively, just about reluctantly. And then she lifted Peter and gingerly forced him into his father's arms. "Go settle him down in his bed, and spend whatever remains of the night there with him," she ordered, her voice low yet demanding. Here, she'd absolutely meant to sting him and trouble him and bother him. Also, she thought, if he was about to say one word of protest, or simply just groan, or if his face twisted the slightest in displeasure, she would take a deep breath, gather her strength, and smack him hard enough on the face to leave a permanent damage there so when Peter would grow up one day and ask why did his father have this injury mark, Jane would dryly say, "Because once, when you've needed your father the most, he failed you, honey—and me."

But then he was calm, as he looked at her and simply nodded. "I will."

He departed then, and did, indeed, spend the remaining of the night with his little baby, the one he'd just failed, the one he'd also just promised that he would never fail again even if it'd bring his life to an end.

What really was so cruel about their baby being colic was that it was part of the first impression, and just from that they were tempted to infer that the rest of it, being a parent, was going to be even harder—that this was how difficult it is to be a parent!

But with a combination of patience, time and effort, the unexplainable, unceasing crying went away—it stopped. It was hell on earth—oh, God only knows—and then it was over. One night as winter approached, when Peter was four months old, he fell asleep and they got to talking and realized that he hadn't cried! Not tonight, nor the night before. A week went by, then two. It was a month before they really believed things changed. Just like that, it was over. That would've been great to be reminded of when they were in the middle of it—the fact that colic was temporary!

Now, Peter, five months old, smiled and giggled and only fussed when he actually needed something. He was responsive, too, when his parents brought him toys, or sang for him, or made funny faces to him as they fed him. Everything went back to normal, their lives, their routine, and most importantly their relationship. And with Peter in a perfect condition now, he bounded them together even stronger.

Even their closest friends, to this modern day, make the same fuss about it over and over, as if it were a revelation. When in special occasions Jane and Kurt share exclusive family photos in the group chat with them, everyone pretends to freak out, and all the replies unite on how crazy Peter is basically his daddy's twin. Though everything is said in a funny manner—they all eventually laugh, including Jane—except for one rude reply that implies how Jane looks like a nanny between Kurt and Peter in the photos. 

The comments regarding the matter increase in number and can be presumptuously said sometimes—new friends throw questions if Peter is actually Jane's biological son, others stick their noses and advise the parents to run a DNA test for Peter to investigate the matter.

Jane herself finds it hilarious, really, the way people think of it, surprised at their narrow mentality. And Kurt does too. But  at one calm evening he spots Jane folding small pieces of Peter's clothes, and so he comes over and beings helping, though she doesn't need the help, he knows—but after how long they've been together, the instinct for them to do everything in collaboration never seems to fade away. And after they're done with folding, he asks her to be honest and tell him how does it really make her feel when hearing such comments from people, if she ever feels touchy because of it, the whole fact, given that she's been so incredibly passionate about this kid before he was in her womb yet, that she's been the one to have carried him for nine months, around forty weeks, spent half a day on labor and went through awful afterbirth pain for a period of time afterward, only so Kurt can get all the credit and she be teased about it?

She then looks up at him, blinks in surprise at each and every word he's said, and then chuckles lightly. "What, you think it makes me sad or something?"

"I don't know, you tell me, how does it make you feel, the whole fact not just what others say?"

"Of course it makes me happy! The whole fact makes me happy," she states for once and all, loud and clear.

"It does?"

Her face changes a little at the sight of him debate her statement. So she takes his hands in hers, locks her gaze with his, and continues, "Wanna know something, Kurt, huh? Every time I gaze at you, let's say in a moment of silence, I’m more convinced that this's exactly how Peter is gonna look like once he grows up, becomes an adult, like you now, and vice versa—every time I gaze at Peter I could easily see you in him when you were his age. It's the best feeling imaginable, I swear. I must say thank you, Kurt! You've left remarkable traces of you in him—effortlessly though but it's still something priceless. And God, who do I love more in this world than you two?"

The soft smile Jane wears at the end clears all of his worries that have been lingering. Sometimes—such as this time—Kurt wonders if how much Jane can make him feel has got something to do with magic, because it makes him go back in time and fall in love with her all over again in an instant.

"What would I do without you?" He keeps wondering, awash with affection for this woman who now reaches out for him in a delicate, seductive manner.

She still asked him how his days were and made appropriate responses when he told her. Other than that, though, she always pretended to be busy with Peter so she wouldn't have to spend time with him.

He, during these dull days, watched her in earnest, in a desperate, longing way, while she was simply searching for something in their living room; or starching her neck in the morning; or peeling an apple with her knuckle guiding the blade; or massaging the small of Peter's back with her feather-like touches; or making their bed in her underwear to let the cream she'd rubbed all over her legs and arms soak in before dressing. He couldn't help the feeling of sudden panic hitting him at the chest that he'd almost not met her and married her and started a family with her if she, all these years ago, hadn't plotted her way into his life but had chosen someone else's life. He loved her way more than a human heart could, and loved the little one they'd created the same way. But did he deserve to be loved the same way? That was a doubt within himself these days…

If she would come over and yell at him about it, he'd be ashamed of himself—so damn ashamed—but he'd tell the her truth, that he what did on that day was really nothing, that he was basically just sitting alone at a quiet place, away from others, having a few drinks, because he was tired out, consumed to the fullest, and his entire being couldn't endure anything anymore, by all means.

You think that I'm not tired of it, too? she would cut through whatever he would've been saying afterward, yelling, though her voice would crack at the last few words, and here he'd look down and say nothing no more. He wouldn't know what to say then, and wouldn't know what do, either. He'd go silent, feeling the blood in his body boil, until his silence stretched so long that when he'd finally look up, to start begging her with his eyes to see how sorry be was—because that was all he was: sorry—he'd find her long gone from his surrounding.

____

"What can I do, Jane?" Kurt asked her the next Saturday morning, in the kitchen, grabbing her wrist to stop her from going over to Peter as he just started fussing. Instantly, her eyes flew to his, and if his grab hadn't indeed stopped her from moving, the plea she saw in his eyes would've done it.

"What do you want me to do, huh?"

She stared at him for a long minute, and he stared right back. He could see her thinking now. Behind those green eyes and pursed lips, he could see her thinking. But, by then, little Peter, alone in his room, was crying his heart out, and the sound got louder and louder by every passing second they wasted staring at one another.

"You know how much I hate such questions, Kurt," she told him, over the sound of Peter's screams, then yanked her wrist away and went straight to Peter. What her husband just asked her lacked profundity in it, she thought. He was basically asking her what he should do so she'd tell him to do this and that and he'd, of course, do this and that immediately. And then what? Then she was supposed to let whatever happened slide? That was way too easy on his side, and way too difficult on her side.

He sighed, as he watched her go before his eye. He was tired physically and emotionally. He'd been relying on two to three hours of sleep daily—and Jane's sleep was more or less like his, too. But aside from being unable to sleep at nights because of their baby's colic, she'd been consuming his thoughts, eating his brain, keeping him up at nights even when she didn't know it. Why did that have to happen to them? He could count the days when she'd slept angry at him—or the opposite—using his own fingers. The number was one digit. It was small, manageable. But now… Now they were only a few days apart from this number to become two digits.

On Saturday mornings they used to go on walks with Peter, but this Saturday Kurt sat alone in the kitchen, listening to Peter cry, and Jane shushing him. It was cloudy and dark outside today, and apparently the sadness of the day from outside snuck inside their place.

He sat, and thought.

He tried to think of the beginning of their marriage, their first year in the apartment in Colorado. The memories seemed almost too sweet to be real. Did they have arguments? They must've had, of course, but he couldn't recall any. They must have been short-lived. Silly, even. About food, most likely.

"Do you want Italian or Chinese for dinner?" Jane once asked him.

"I want what you want." Kurt shrugged lazily.

"Just tell me what it is that you want."

"I'm happy doing whatever."

"Now, this is so frustrating!"

"How is this frustrating? What's going on?"

"I'm asking something, but you're not putting the slightest effort into helping me!"

"How did you just make me not helping you here, Jane? Ugh, let's just get sushi. Is that okay?"

And that was that.

He wondered if they had fights back then, and smiled when he almost immediately could recall some of their fights and how ridiculous they were in comparison to now: It's-your-turn-to-turn-out-the-light fight—this had been a classic fight of theirs. There had been rare nights when the light switch flicked off without a fight. After all, who, of them, was sane enough to get out of bed while the other was lying naked in it? Kurt would refuse, always, and Jane would curse him aloud in another language, or maybe throw a punch or two at him. They would fight for a while, raise their voices during the late hour. But then, and in a heartbeat, they'd just make up for all of that and kiss and make love and completely forget about it the next morning.

It had been rather fun, having such arguments and fights back then, Kurt thought to himself. It wasn't about winning; it certainly wasn't about who was right and who was wrong. In fact, it was during those heated moments when they truly got to learn who the other person was, deeply, which ultimately made them stronger as a couple.

On this Saturday afternoon, however, they were trapped inside. They couldn't depart from their apartment due to the weather, nor could they have any fun inside. But they did spend a typical day at home anyway; they showered and cooked and cleaned and rushed around to go cuddle Peter when his stomach pain hit him. Though they did all these things from within glass walls, so when Kurt exchanged pleasantries with Jane, at dinner, he felt as if he were pushing his words through a chink in the glass.

On the following days, things between them become easier, somewhat—only because there was an effort, being made by the two of them to make things better. In the morning, she found him sharing a warm bath with Peter, because it was good for Peter; it made the pain in his belly easy off, if only slightly. And when he asked her to join them in the bath, she shook her head and said, "No. I'll let you guys have some quiet time together. Father and son. And I'll go have 'me' time. But before I go, do you need towels?"

At the end of the day, when she sat on the couch and tried to find something good on television, he came over and sat next to her and she allowed it, didn't mumble 'good night' and withdraw and call it a day like before. The first thing he did after getting off from work was come straight home, drop his things by the door and go have Peter for the remaining of the day—it was such a break for Jane, and it was so sweet to see father and son staring at each other over the bottle while he drank his milk.

She began looking at him again, sometimes just long enough to let him know that she knew exactly what he was doing. He wasn't perfect, but he was so damn close.

____

In the dead of the night, while they were asleep, Peter started his usual crying. Kurt put a hand on Jane's hip and told her to keep sleeping, and then he picked up Peter and rocked him and offered a bottle and a song hummed low. It wasn't his fault that Peter didn't seem to settle until Jane came over and had him in her arms. Afterward, Kurt, standing there listless, made a joke at his lame situation, implying that, if he could get a wig resembling Jane's hair and have his entire body tattooed just like hers on the slim chance that perhaps Peter would mistake him for his mother and quiet down, he seriously would. Jane laughed. She laughed aloud at the joke he made, effortlessly so, even though it was dark, Peter was still wailing, and she was so tired.

After she laughed and he drank up the sound of her laughter to the last drop, he then added, "But… I know it's more than just our looks. I don't believe that Peter recognizes us by our looks at this early age. At least not mainly. But perhaps through our smells, body temperature and texture. Our voices."

She looked up at him, and offered the smallest of smiles. "You're right."

They went back to bed, after having made sure Peter was comfortable and asleep again. But half an hour passed by and they were yet to fall back asleep. They kept rolling from one side to another and sighing through the silence of their bedroom. For ten minutes straight he was staring at the dark mess of her hair from the back, then, for the next ten minutes or so, when he flipped to his side and she flipped to his side, too, she was staring at the bare of his upper back. Both wanted to reach out for the other and say something, but the thought of disturbing each other's sleep for the second time tonight was out of the question.

It wasn't until at one point they happened to face each other that Kurt placed a light hand on Jane's cheek and brushed his thumb there. Her eyes had been slightly open then, but now she had to close them and relish the moment at the soft of his touch.

"Jane, are we okay?" he asked, keeping his voice to whispers. "You and me?"

She opened her eyes again, and saw him looking so worried. She saw his own eyes and saw tears shimmering there. Crawling toward him, she placed a hand over his own, light yet somehow firm. "Yes, we're okay. Of course," she reassured him, and the worried look he'd been wearing just seconds ago, disappeared completely. He only needed to know this, only needed to hear this from her.

He brought her closer to him, kissed her forehead, nose, lips, cheekbones, and everywhere he could reach. When he drew back, he saw her grinning, her white teeth gleaming in the dark. "Do that all over again, please?" she whispered, her hand on his hair, and he did it all over again, though this time he seemed more confident, his kisses were relatively harder, his hands on her placed themselves in decent places: her neck, her back.

It felt so damn good to be kissed by him again, and it felt just as good to kiss him back. She hadn't been looking at him some days ago, let alone tolerate his touch. But now, she thought that she could spend a lifetime like this, letting him kiss her senselessly, and she'd be perfectly and entirely happy.

"Hey, Kurt," she called softly, framing his face with both hands. "It's a great idea actually! You get be me this next Halloween! And I can help you with that."

Kurt chuckled in disbelief, but she continued, "What? It's Peter's first Halloween ever. We have to make it fun for him."

He stole a kiss from her parted lips. "Sure, we have to make it fun for him. But we don't want to scare him! It's enough what he's going through."

"Of course we don't want to scare him! He's barely four months old by now. It's all gonna be light and fun and we'll get to snap so many photos of him while in a costume! I can't wait for it!"

"Think I'm not gonna look scary as hell while in your costume, fully-tattooed and a messy, dark wig over my head? I'm gonna look scary for certain, Jane. Just begin to imagine it."

"Did you just you mean that I look scary all the tim—"

"No, no, no. No. No. That's not what I meant here." He sniggered, burying his face deep in her neck. Then, shortly, he surfaced. "It's me who's gonna look scary in the tattoos and a wig! You've never ever looked scary in the tattoos."

"You won't look scary!"

"Yes, I will," he said, seeming certain and somehow sad. "And Peter is never gonna stop crying at the sight of me."

"I think you're gonna look sexy, honestly." She smirked, and he sighed as she continued, "And I think Peter's gonna like you, since he already likes me more than you now and I'm gonna make you look just like me!"

"Who are you gonna dress up as for Halloween, then?" he asked, his eyes tracing the lines of her face as his fingers began sneaking down to inappropriate places in her body, though he was totally entitled to do so.

"I'm not sure yet. But…" She couldn't continue until she stole a few kisses from him, randomly, everywhere she could reach. "But I'll be thinking about it. And I'll be thinking about Peter's costume, too, till then."

He was tearing off her t-shirt and got a little giddy at the sight of her nakedness when she concluded, "At least…now… Now, you're done. You should feel lucky that you're done, and not complain or worry anymore about your costume."

Feeling, indeed, so lucky, he was again atop of her now, and between his skin and hers, there was the smallest of spaces, barely enough for air, for the slick of sweat soon would be chilling. "I know, I won't complain nor worry. And, yes, I feel so, so damn lucky. Umm, you really think I'm gonna look sexy in your tattoos?"

"Shirtless? Yes, I really do," she whispered, then there was a hum slipping from her lips as he kissed her neck in a way that time seemed to stop.

They knew that they should be sleeping instead of talking about ridiculous Halloween costumes, and knew that sleep was probably better for them now than laughing and making noises and rocking the whole place. But then again, they didn't care. This was the most they'd talked in weeks, and this was the only sex they'd had in months.

"How are you gonna do it? The tattoos on me?" he asked her, some minutes after they calmed down and came back to earth. She slowly ran a hand over his chest as if examining it—already could visualize the fake  tattoos on him—before she replied, "Basically, I'm gonna draw them all over your body, with my magic marker!"

"Would that magic marker of yours wash off afterward?"

Today, however, she isn’t surprised like before, not at all, but rather disappointed to have seen him do such behaviors yet another night, giving her the cold shoulder when it’s bedtime.

Once settled in bed beside him, it takes Jane a moment of hesitation before she places a hand over his shoulder that’s covered with the blanket, and then whispers his name sweetly, fluttering her eyelashes a little. Yet, he doesn’t bother to turn around, or even reply. He only sighs, and after what? After nearly a full minute.

It isn’t in him to have done that, not welcoming her in, or to have given her his back in the first place. She remembers how, some days before she had to go on the run, he used to carry her in his arms around the apartment to their bedroom while she laughed and fussed, saying that it was lame what he was doing, that she wasn’t a new bride anymore. But only judging from the sound of her laughters, vibrant and light, Kurt knew how she enjoyed it to the point of bursting. He also used to await her when she sometimes used extra more minutes in the bathroom before bedtime.

But ever since she came back, he hasn’t been himself; she can’t recognize this person she’s been living with, sleeping with and eating with every day. Now he's apathetic, especially toward her, and so distant that at times she can’t feel like he's right here and so close enough to touch. She acknowledges that he’s suffering, of course he is, both of them are, but the way he deals with it makes more damage than necessary. And all it seems, he’s doing it intentionally. She finds it so hard now to talk to him the way she used to, casually and teasingly, without having to be cautious with every word spoken.

Jane’s thought, this only is a matter of time until they find their way back together. After all, what they underwent is tragic, distracting even. She’s having troubles swallowing it herself, up until this day, and he must feel the same, but hopefully not permanently. Now both of them need a recovery. No human is ever capable of processing this much easily. Recovery needs time, will, and support.

Support, in the bathroom Jane paused for a moment and pondered on the simple word. She repeated it over and over in her head, as if trying to get to the bottom of its deepest meaning. Like a sudden flash of light in the dark, hope abruptly sprung in her chest. At that very moment she jumped to her feet and raced out to make her way to Kurt, who now is still putting his back to her.

“Can you get up so we can talk?” She asks, politely, and sweetly, as if talking to a kid. He does as asked then, finally turning around to face her.

Then, she turns on the lamp on the table beside her, to which Kurt frowns, showing absolute displeasure at the sudden brightness of the light. The entire time her eyes watch him, worry and anticipation brimming in them. It takes time for Kurt’s eyes to adjust to the new setting of light, but once that happens, he finally holds her gaze.

For a moment, she’s speechless, while his eyes dart back and fourth, drawing her closer to them—technically, closer to him. She crawls little by little to him, until his rigid knee brushes against hers beneath the blanket. Right after that she sneaks a hand down in search of his hand. She grips on it, then regrips, gaining confidence from the right amount of warmth his skin has.

This time she needs to take a different approach in attempts to work this through, she thinks, maybe ask him something he can’t deny, because every time she’d asked him, let’s say, if he was okay or if there was something bothering him of some kind, she was never given the proper or convincing answer—she’d hear him mumble that he was just tired, then he’d go silent until his silence stretched so long that Jane would get past being able to fill it again!

Now, a little self-conscious, she begins, “Have you noticed that we haven’t kissed nor done anything together for almost a week now?” She can’t tell him that precisely, ‘for five days and twenty-some hours’ or else she would’ve sounded so pathetic to him that she’s been counting all these days and hours. It isn’t something she’s proud of, or wants to hear out loud anyway.

Kurt’s response is immediate, and short. “Yes, I have.”

“Are you okay with it? Because I’m not.” She shakes her head, just slightly, to emphasize her disapproval.

“No, I’m not okay with it either,” Kurt admits. His right hand, after having been aching him to do something, rises up and tucks a stray strand of her hair behind her ear, then it takes its sweet time trailing down her neck. Before long, Jane is leaning to his touch, eyes falling close, and pressing her lips tightly together so she won’t moan out loud, despite he’s barely ever done anything. Judging from the way Jane is desperately leaning some more forward until her forehead smacks against his own, and the way her heartbeat is elevated... it sadly shows how it’s been a while since the two have been this close together.

After she finally captures his lips, Kurt doesn’t seem to allow her to go deeper. He, instead, begins playing with her bottom lip, before which she flutters her eyes open, molten, so blown out with lust that she can barely make out the red from the black in this very moment. She wants to drown in him, right now, right here, and she wants him to drown in her, is all.

Her arms curl up around his neck to make him impossibly close, then she gets herself up on his lap and starts pushing herself against him, wanting him to fall apart for her. wanting to redeem all those long five days and twenty-some hours that she couldn’t kiss him nor touch him this way. But the second Jane’s hand lowers and braces his own on her breast over the cloth, wanting more, Kurt adds, “but I’m not okay with what you’ve done, sweetheart.”

She’s completely caught off guard to have heard that—though barely heard it, because his voice was low, as if he was revealing a secret. She pulls back then, swallows, and looks at him through narrowed eyes while he looks at her with a face set like stone.

“What? What have I done, Kurt?” She fumbles in the words, her hands froze still around his shoulders, which makes him chuckle against her face. “Really, Jane, you do the thing and then forget about it this easily?”

Frowning and taking her hands off him, she asks with a serious expression, “Kurt, can you talk clearly, please?”

“I really don’t have the heart to, not right now.” He pretends that he’s tired, yawning, which makes her purse her lips at how immature that seems of him. “So you just want to ignore me now, for whatever that is you assume I’ve done? Is that how we have dealt with things before?” Her voice might have got louder, sharper, but her face is still soft looking at him. “It’s not really in you to be doing that, Kurt. That’s not you! I don’t know who you’re anymore! You’ve become so cold...”

By now she’s completely off his lap, having distanced herself from him, feeling a little touchy towards him and the way he just acted—the way he’s been acting, actually. Next, when she’s about to leave the bed, therefore obviously leave the whole room for him, Kurt retorts, “And I don’t know who you’re anymore, Jane, to know that you have been sleeping with that guy out there, while I was here all alone spending every second of the past year and a half looking for you, thinking of you, and worrying about you!”

She stares at him, stunned, again completely caught off guard to have heard that. “Kurt...” she tries to say something, but he’s continuing, “Everything I owned—everything I thought we owned together—I spent it trying to look for you, and you were with someone else! How is that fair for me!”

“Kurt, listen, it was one time and it meant absolutely nothing.” With a shaky voice, she tries to soothe him.

“Oh really! It meant nothing? Then why did you meet with him once again when you left me here the other week, saying you needed some time alone? He must’ve been better than me and so maybe you wanted to do it again—“

She snaps at once, pointing an index finger at him, “No, Kurt, you don’t get to say this about me! I’ve only asked him for help, because you lied to me, remember? and I couldn’t trust you at the time.”

“Oh, don't act all wounded, Jane.” He winces that she brought up the subject he loathes the most. “We were lied to, both of us, by your brother and daughter. And whatever I did, all from the start, me going all the way to Berlin, has been to look for you, Jane, because I was madly missing you, while you were... My intention has never been to hurt you.”

“keeping the truth from me hurt me nonetheless, Kurt. But I decided to forgive you and forget all that, right away, because for me you’re more than one mistake.”

It makes him swallow, what she just said, then makes him unable to blink as she continues, “But if you’re going to judge me over a mistake I’ve made while I was so lonely, so vulnerable... and if we’re going to circle around the same circle we have once in the past, I promise you, Kurt, it truly is not worth it for both of us.”

He looks at her for a long moment, her words starting to sink into his head and changing his expression to something softer. He begins to rub his eyes in exhaustion. “The thought of you with someone else, I can’t get it out of my head. And the sleepless nights I spent alone... make me angry at you and... unable to look at you.” He confesses, his voice lower, seemingly straggling and wanting help.

Jane senses that, of course, and approaches him a little with a light hand over his bare shoulder. “I want you to know that I feel guilty about it, and that I’m sorry. I also want you to know that it absolutely meant nothing. It was mindless, stupid... It’s you that I closed my eyes and thought of every night before my sleep. It’s you that I wished I were with, badly. And it’s you that I fought for and stopped whatever I was doing and left right away, not making it get any farther.”

He listens to her thoroughly, as she talks, with his eyes tracking her face, bouncing from feature to feature, then his hand lies nicely upon her thigh, which feels tensed, a bit cold. He believes all she said, it’s no question, though as he already said, he just can’t get the thought of her with someone else out his damn head that easily, and doesn’t even know for how long he’s going to resist that... though he knows himself well and knows how difficult it’s for him to deal with such matters: forgiving and forgetting things.

He again lowers his head, because it’s hard to look at her, and it’s been ever since she came back. Ever since he knew about it. Though the feeling of his hand now laying over her thigh as her bare skin gets warmer under his touch, is good. He likes it. He misses it. He even doesn’t intend to let go of it any time soon, just like she doesn’t intend to do with her hand, having it over his shoulder.

It takes him some time to think, and some effort to push away that ugly image in his head, during which it’s so quiet around them, since she’s only holding her breath and he’s only thinking.

“If you you want me gone so you can think this through, have your own space, it’s okay, Kurt, I’ll leave for—“

“Absolutely not.” He rushes to say, shaking his head in disapproval while his hand presses a little harder against her thigh to keep her in place as if she meant that she’d actually leave right way. But no, she didn’t mean that, and of course won’t do such a thing if he doesn’t want her to. So she stays in place, beside him, then, little by little, she crawls closer to him over their bed until she feels brave enough to hold his face firmly up and looks him directly in the eye so that there’s no way for him to look away, or even down.

Eyes red, he has to look at her tiredly. At this given moment, he’s blaming himself but not her. Why can’t he just let things go and move on? Why does he suck at that? She looks so sorry now, she’s apologized and meant it, and things seem to be falling into the right place after having been unbalanced over the last weeks. But still...

When she brings his forehead against hers, so softly that he gives in to her touch, she whispers, “You’re the one that I love, always have and always will.” She pauses for a bit, only to  kiss his lips for a long moment, then whispers again, “I love you, Kurt.”  Pulling back, she looks up at him, who clearly seems so tired by now. So spent. Doesn’t even seem to have a reaction to what she just said. Not that it means nothing to him. But Jane immediately figures that he just can’t do this anymore, talking.

“You look tired, sorry I dragged you... You better sleep now.” She mumbles, turns off the lamp on her nightstand, then puts him down in bed with such care, before she lies close to him, facing him, thinking that he might need it, the assurance. And it surprises her when he, possessively, hugs her close to him and buries his face in her neck, though she doesn’t mind the surprise. Really. She smiles, rather sadly for all that had to happen, feeling so glad to have him this close for now.

In the silence, Jane whispers her love to him repetitively to redeem all the days that passed during which she couldn’t say it, because it would’ve sounded weird, or out of nowhere, while now it feels the most beautiful, natural thing in the world to say. As for Kurt, he only hugs her somehow tighter and doesn’t say anything. Sometimes—such as this time—Kurt can be someone who eschews words in favor of touch—a hug, like this, with all his might.