Title: Staring Into Open Flames (1/1)

Universe: Blindspot, post-1x10

Rating: R

Pairings: Oscar/pre-memory wipe Jane Doe (?); Kurt Weller/Jane Doe

Summary: "What in the world has he done to deserve this?" In which Oscar cannot help but torture himself.

A/N: This is set post-1x10, but as if the Oscar/Jane/Carter abduction-rescue had never happened, and the episode ended with Jane and Kurt's kiss. FYI, this one's pretty fucked up (and long), so read at your own risk, folks.

Oscar is frozen in the aftermath of their first kiss—hers and Weller's—frozen as he watches from the other side of the street, frozen like the both of them seem to be. He could bet that none of them—not even she, who had started it all—had seen this moment coming. They stand still, hands resting lightly on each other, eyes locked on one another. She whispers something to Weller—Oscar's too far away to read her lips, let alone hear—but whatever it is, it makes Weller's mouth twitch up in a smile. She smiles a little, too—and then she's leaning forward again, kissing him again, her hands slipping behind his neck, and into his hair. She's stepping closer, pulling him to her, pushing herself up to him, into him—

It's not supposed to be like this, is all Oscar can think, wanting to shout it at her from across the street as he watches. This wasn't the plan. This wasn't what they'd discussed.

Sure, something would likely bloom there, between her and Weller—of course, they'd accounted for that. They'd made plans, and they'd sketched out space for contingencies, and they'd done their homework—but it wasn't supposed to be like this.

She was never supposed to come to Weller. He was always supposed to come to her. It was all always supposed to be borne out of him. And she was supposed to use that—that want of his, that loneliness, that desperate craving for a meaningful connection—to her advantage.

She's certainly using it to her advantage now, Oscar thinks, his eyes boring into her from across the street as she leans up on her tiptoes to meet Weller more fully, and give more of herself to him.

They had talked about this, before. They talked about how it might happen, how it might seem to appear from far away, to him as he monitored her, and how—

How it would be painful but necessary.

That was the phrase she always used, emphasis on necessary. Because the pain didn't matter, no, not when it was someone besides her feeling it. Not when it when it was furthering the mission. Any and all pain was supposed to be worth it for the end goal, that's what she always said. Always promised.

He used to think she was saying it for herself, to psych herself up before she lost herself. To fortify herself against the fear and the uncertainty that they both knew were to come in the aftermath of the memory wipe. To ingrain the mission in her mind even when everything was to be obliterated. But now he can't help but wonder if she'd been saying it to him, for him.

They had watched Weller together, studied him together, in the months prior to her going under. They'd recorded his every movement in his home for weeks and weeks, watching the way he moved, talked, acted, and functioned on a day-to-day level. They'd watched the way he went about his routines and they took note of how he ordered his life. They'd watched for weaknesses and strengths and everything in between.

He lived a quiet, self-contained life for the most part. Before his sister and nephew had come to live with him, he'd spent most of his time alone. He was on good terms with his coworkers, but he never invited them over, never had parties or dinners or get-togethers. In fact, he never really spent all that much time in his apartment, really. Mostly, he divided his time between driving to work, being at work, and driving home from work.

The time he did spend in his apartment was little and dull. The majority of it he spent sleeping. The rest he spent cooking—almost always only for himself, unless he had the rare visitor—or watching TV. Often he brought case files home with him, spreading them out across his kitchen table like silent guests, conversing with them mentally, and sometimes even aloud, as he ate alone, or while he half-watched a football game on mute.

There were women, sometimes, but not often. No one regular, at least, not from what they could see in the few months they monitored him. Once he'd had an out-of-town guest stay for a night, and while they'd seemed familiar with one another—he'd laughed aloud for the first time they'd ever heard, while she was visiting with him—but she'd still left the morning after just like the others, and he hadn't seemed upset. It had all seemed to be more about fulfilling a temporary need than pursuing any sort of relationship; for him as much as for any of the women he had over. Clearly they had all known the deal going into it, and no one really pressed for more at the end, least of all him.

Oscar had shrugged at the sight of it all back then, hardly caring. So the guy was an introvert, married to his work, with no serious relationships to speak of, surely that was a good thing, right? It would make it easier to infiltrate his life when he had no one looking out for him but himself. But she had frowned in response back then, her eyes tracing Weller's figure on their little monitor as they watched him. He's lonely, she'd observed, and though Oscar hadn't thought anything of it at the time, her words from back then ring in his ears now as he watches them from across the street: Loneliness makes people desperate, dangerous. Suspicious.

It won't be that easy, she'd said back then, as if warning them both. He won't be that easy.

As he remembers, Oscar wants to laugh in her face for a maniacal moment, wants to yell across the street, Not as difficult as you thought it'd be, huh?

But the humor's gone as soon as it appears, because she still hasn't pulled away. She's still kissing him. Still pulling at the lapels of his coat like she wants to rip it off.

They'd planned for this possibility, yes. Relied on it, actually. But that doesn't make it any easier to take in person, less than twenty feet away. As he watches them, still unable to look away, Oscar can't help but remember the night she'd given him his ring back, just days before she'd gone under. Had she known, even then, that something like this with Weller was inevitable? Had she been attracted to him, even back then, when Weller had been nothing more than a grainy image on their surveillance screens, a forsaken idiot waiting for guidance?

Oscar wants to be able to think No and believe it. He wants to believe she was as devoted to their relationship as she had been to the mission. But the doubt clings to him, as tight and close as she and Weller are clinging to each other. He can't help but think that passion like what they're exhibiting now only comes from years of waiting, years of longing. And sure, Weller has that. He's been pining after that neighbor girl for the last two decades, and they so perfectly orchestrated it so that she would fit that part for him. But her… There is no reason for her to feel this way about him.

Oscar feels a flood of relief, of life, when they finally pull apart, surprised by Weller's nephew watching from the entryway of his building. Oscar actually sighs, and releases some of the tension in his jaw as they come apart. But the relief is short-lived, because he's waiting for the regret, too, and it doesn't come. She smiles as Weller walks away and disappears inside with his nephew, and she keeps smiling as she walks back home. She smiles the whole way.

And he feels himself fall further and further down.

But he follows her back home nonetheless. Just because he's upset doesn't mean he can shirk his duty in protecting her. He'd promised her again and again, before she'd gone under, that he'd do his part once she left. He'd promised he wouldn't let anything, or anyone, get in the way of the job he'd been given. He watches from a couple doors down, now, to make sure she gets into her apartment all right, and then he heads to his own makeshift home a few blocks away, to keep an eye out from afar.

She seems distracted when she gets home. From the one camera he had managed to post in her living room after she'd been assigned this apartment all those weeks ago, he watches her as she moves about the room. She seems aimless, goalless, for the first time ever. He frowns at the sight of her like this. Who is she not to have a task: a file to get back to, a case to study, a tattoo to brood over?

He knows where the idle wandering is coming from. He knows where her head is. He stares at her feet as she roams around her apartment so he won't have to look at her face. He knows the smile Weller's lips put there will still be visible, and he doesn't want to look at it right now.

She's just finishing up eating dinner when the call comes.

She jumps up at the sound of her phone ringing, all but racing across the room to get it. Oscar watches her, a blur of decorated skin and dark hair, as she crosses the room in record time to grab her phone from the table by the couch. Turning on the audio from both cameras, the one in her apartment and one of many in Weller's, Oscar listens to their conversation, as breathless as he knows she must be.

"Hey, Jane. I, um, I just wanted to check that you got home safe."

He's awkward on the phone. It makes her smile widen.

"I did. I'm fine."

There's a pause on the line. Though he knows they can't hear him, Oscar finds himself measuring his breaths so his impatience won't get the better of him, as if they might be able to somehow sense him eavesdropping.

"I just… I just wanted to talk to you about something…"

"Okay." There's a touch of nervousness in her voice, and he can see her, sitting up a little straighter in her chair.

Is this the time for the regret? Oscar thinks, feeling too excited, he knows, but unable to stamp the feeling down regardless.

He waits, she waits, but Weller doesn't say anything else. After a few seconds, she prompts him.

"What did you want to talk to me about, Kurt?"

"Anything," he admits with a bit of a laugh. It echoes on the phone, and Oscar has to clutch the lip of the desk in front of him so he won't do something stupid like punch the computer. "The weather. The stock market. The price of oil. Anything."

She smiles, and Oscar watches her hug one of her knees to her chest as she curls up on the couch. She traces the curves of the topographical tattoos inked there absentmindedly. He wants so badly to tell her of their importance, to tell her they should not be doodled over while talking to a boy like they are nothing more than colorful beauty marks.

"Have you had dinner?" she wonders, eyes falling on her own half-eaten take-out containers on the table. "How was that?"

"Good," Weller answers at once, latching onto the topic easily, gratefully. "I cooked, so it was actually edible for once."

"I didn't know you could cook." She sounds impressed. Oscar wishes he could tell her that cooking isn't that hard, despite what her take-out tab might say.

"In comparison with Sarah, I'm a world-class chef—not that that's saying much, though. She burns everything she puts in a pan." He laughs a moment, then quiets. "Maybe I can make dinner for you sometime," he suggests, his voice a little low.

Oscar watches her bit her lip to hide a smile, and pretends it's about something else. "I'd like that," she whispers back, leaning into the phone as if it were Weller's hand on her cheek again.

They say little after that, but end up saying on the line for minutes more, like teenagers, too scared to admit to emotions, too scared to turn their backs on each other. Finally, after they do hang up, Oscar pours himself a drink. And another. And another.

The days pass, and she and Weller go back to work as before. Oscar watches them more closely now, requesting more frequent updates from his comrades placed at the Bureau—waiting for hints, for signs that things have changed… But they're good. Weller, especially. He never touches her longer than usual whenever anyone else is around, as far as the others can see. He doesn't address her differently, or give her different orders than he regularly would. She, if anything, is even more tentative around him than before. Likely their coworkers chalk it up to a small spat between the two, or an intimate moment gone wrong. She and Weller play it well. They don't do a single thing to give themselves away. At least not at work.

At home, it's different. He spends fewer nights with his sister and nephew in the next few weeks, and more visiting her at her apartment in the evenings. He cooks for her, as promised, and she seems to enjoy it to the point of bursting; even Weller, never one to say anything remotely rude, mentions it'll be nice to start seeing some meat on her bones. She balls up a napkin and throws it at him across the table, hitting him squarely in the nose before he can duck.

And then they're kissing again.

They've been doing that a lot recently.

Oscar knows he should intervene. Not just with the kissing, but with everything. They made a deal; her first contact with Weller, he comes in to give her the first debrief. But he can't. He can't make himself do it, can't make himself face her, can't risk the very real possibility that she will run from him and his truth—her truth—and straight back into Weller's open arms. He wants to see her, to have her see him—he wants these things so badly—but he can't just yet. He needs to see where this thing with Weller will go. He needs to know if any memory of their life together will surface soon, and put a halt to this silly love affair.

He doesn't let himself stop to contemplate the possibility that she's been remembering things already, and has been ignoring them in favor of reality with Weller. She had promised him she wouldn't do that. And he had trusted her because he hadn't had a choice; he still trusts her because he doesn't have a choice. She's all he's got left. All he's ever had.

But she has so much more than him now.

And he knows he should not judge. He knows better than anyone how much she gave up for this mission, for this calling. He knows the life, the future, that she left behind to do this. But it's hard to feel bad for her; not when she has everything—a protective detail to look after her and a job to occupy her mind and friends that care for her and a boyfriend that can't get enough of her—and he has nothing. Absolutely nothing. This mission was all he had, too, once he let her go. It's all he's had for months, as he's been watching her, hoping that she'll wander back to him by some strange chance, some inexplicable pull of fate.

But it appears fate is no longer on his side, if it indeed ever has been.

She's taken it like she's taken everything else, and she's running with it, further and faster away from him. Every step she takes seems to lead to more and more good things—for her at work, for her with her friends, for her with Weller. A few weeks after their first kiss, when they finally manage to break the news of their relationship to their coworkers over after-work drinks, none of them are even mad. The blonde woman beams, clapping excitedly before hugging them both, and the other woman, dark-haired, just smirks, holding out her hand, into which the perpetually besuited man deposits a crisp fifty dollar bill with a heavy sigh. The couple in question pretends to be affronted at the wager over their love life, but even from his hiding spot at the back of the bar, Oscar can see they're flattered. Under the table, he can see her squeeze Weller's hand, a look of relief passing from her face to his. They stand a little closer together the rest of the night.

The tattoo cases seem to be moving quicker now, or perhaps Oscar just isn't paying much attention to them anymore. When work was all she focused on, it was all he focused on, too. But she no longer spends her nights brooding over pictures of her own tattooed body alone in her apartment. Instead, she spends her nights inviting Weller to explore them. He uncovers more and more every time they're together, but he never presses her to see them all. He wants to, it's obvious. But, seemingly intent on playing the gentleman, he always pulls away before things get too heated between them.

Oscar would appreciate it, if he knew Weller's attitude wasn't having the opposite effect on her. The more Weller tries to pull away, the more she pulls him back. The more she wants. And Oscar knows it's only a matter of time before one of them gives in completely. They can't dance around each other like this forever, after all.

And, as it turns out, they don't even last another two weeks. One Friday, as the rest of their coworkers are heading out to their customary post-work watering hole, Weller takes her hand and proposes they go out for dinner together instead, just the two of them. I got us a reservation somewhere nice, he says, and she accepts, intrigued and flattered and even a little nervous when he mentions there's a dress code. They've gone out on dates before, but not often, and never to somewhere as fancy as where he's proposing. They go their separate ways then, him back to his apartment and her back to hers, with a promise of meeting up in a couple hours.

Her security detail drives her home, dropping her off at the front door before finding their customary parking space across the street. Back in his own home, Oscar watches her, expecting to see her call her friends over for backup, for fashion advice, for whatever tips women share between themselves when they're alone in a room together before one of them meets up with a man.

But she doesn't do any of that. She sets her phone on the counter, and then marches straight up to her bedroom, throwing open the closet door. There's a lot more in there than there used to be before she first kissed Weller. When her friends had learned that she and Weller were dating, the first thing they'd done, apart from pester her for details, was take her out for a shopping trip. He doesn't care what I wear, she'd complained, as she'd been dragged from one store to the next, with the two women on either side like prison guards. It's a waste of money.

But she hadn't turned down what they'd bought her: the dresses, the coats, the jewelry, the lingerie. She'd blushed at the last, offering feeble protests, her face red as some of the bra-and-panty sets they'd handed her, but she hadn't said no when they'd demanded she try some on. From all the multicolored options the two women had thrown at her, festooned with ribbons and fishnets and straps and all manner of ostentatious sex appeal, she had chosen rather simple, relatively plain pieces. All black. Lacey. Close-fitting.

They suit her, Oscar has to admit. The old her, and this new her, too.

She wears them now, having stripped down and changed into underwear less appropriate for FBI foot chases and more appropriate for whatever romantic evening lies ahead. For a long while, she just stands in front of the full-length mirror tacked inside her closet, turning from side to side, examining herself. Oscar does the same, wondering what in the world she thinks of herself now, covered as she is in these tattoos. She'd seen the plans, beforehand, and while she'd never said anything aloud, he'd always noticed her grimacing a bit when eyeing the full-body spreads of what she would look like after the procedures. She'd never gotten even a drop of ink put into her skin before she went under. She'd always liked his tattoo, the tree that is still spread across his inner arm, but he thinks that was more because it was a part of him than because of anything else.

Once she's finally deemed her body sufficient enough in her mind, she starts trying on dresses. He stops watching partway through, bored, but she must've gone through ten or twelve before settling on what she settles on: a knee-length navy blue dress, with ruffles that float down the side, and sway whenever she moves. It is sleeveless, and dips a little low in the front, and for a while after she puts it on, she fiddles with scarves and cardigans, trying to decide what tattoos she wants to wants to cover and which are impossible to hide. The back of the dress dips low, as well, and as she shrugs in and out of coverings, Oscar watches Weller's name branded on her upper back disappear and reappear from sight, like an eye following him.

It reminds him of many things he'd rather not think about, but it also reminds him he should check on Weller. He's been watching her for far too long now.

The cameras in Weller's apartment show basically the same scene hers do, just played out in a different setting, with a different subject, and a different set of clothes. From the jumble of half-filled hangers and messy drawers, Oscar can tell the man's been changing in and out of clothes, too, trying to find something to impress her with. But he seems to be settled now, too; he's in the bathroom now, inspecting himself in the mirror. He's wearing a simple gray suit, but clearly of nice quality, with a pale green button-down shirt underneath that Oscar's certain his sister bought for him. It matches his eyes too perfectly for him to have found it himself.

Oscar sits back and glances from screen to screen, watching the care they take in dressing for each other, and he can't help but wonder if, somehow, he missed whatever secret discussion they'd had about the importance of tonight. Each second they spend in front of the mirror is deliberate, each article of clothing is tucked in or smoothed out to perfection. They're both anxious, he can tell even from the images on the screen, but neither rushes.

He watches them dress for what feels like forever, and wonders as he does so just how badly the rest of the mission will go if he shoots himself right now. He's getting sick of this, of watching them preen for each other. His job is to look out for her, to protect her, but what is he supposed to do now? She's got her security detail to watch her back, and Weller to watch the rest of her. Does she even need him, Oscar, anymore? Did she ever?

For the thousandth time, he wonders if she's doing this purposefully to torture him. Had she always known it would play out like this? How? Why? And what in the world has he done to deserve this, to be made to sit and watch?

Sure, he had fought her on the mission, in the beginning. He had discouraged her from the planning, discouraged her from the training, discouraged her from going through with it in any way, shape, or form. He hadn't wanted her to do any of it. Leave the danger and the uncertainty and the loss of life and memory to someone else, he'd said. Yelled. Begged. Leave it all to someone else, please. Please.

He hadn't wanted her to leave him, that was all it really came down to. He had wanted her to stay with him, and get married, and live happily-ever-after like they'd used to promise themselves that they would one day. He'd been selfish, no question about it.

But I've done my part now, he thinks, his throat growing tight as he watches her apply lipstick in the bathroom. I've fallen in line like you asked! I've done every little thing you've ordered me to do!

He wants to show her the proof, the logs, wants to rip out his heart and show her his devotion—not only to her, but to this mission she's cherished so much for so long, because he knows loving her means loving it. He wants to walk her through all he's done—how he's looked after her, how he's tied up all the loose ends for her, how he has always made sure that she knows exactly what she needs to know and nothing more or less. He wants to show her all the bodies he's put in the ground. All the people he has turned into corpses, for her. It has all been for her.

And this is what he gets in return: he gets to watch her run down the stairs when the doorbell rings, and check herself one last time before she opens the door, and grin at Weller as he appears like a prince to take her away to better things.

The dinner, Oscar has to admit, is basically fit for royalty. When he'd heard Weller call and make the reservation two weeks ago, Oscar had called the restaurant, too, thinking he could grab a place for himself, out of sight by the bar, just to check on her. But no. That hadn't been possible. Because the restaurant, one of the nicest in the city, was booked full for the next year and a half.

But all Weller had to do was say his own name, and just like that—suddenly there was an opening. A table for two. A full-course meal on the house and a very nice bottle of wine to go with it. Going through what parts of the FBI's database he had managed to gain access to, it took Oscar just a few days to figure out why. Weller had helped the head chef out of a wrongful blackmailing incident a few years ago, saving both his wife who'd been held hostage and his restaurant that he'd been about to put up as collateral to ensure her safety. And so in gratitude, the man had apparently promised Weller an open table whenever he wanted one. From the way Weller looks around the decadent restaurant in awe, his eyes as wide as hers, Oscar can guess that he had never called in the favor before now. Never had cause to.

Having been unable to gain legitimate access to the restaurant, Oscar does his best to keep tabs on their dinner from the outside. He glances in from a front window as he pretends to take a call out on the street, then about a half-hour later, he pretends to wait for an acquaintance; twenty minutes later, he has a cigarette out front; on and on and on. He watches them share an appetizer, and order their entrees, and steal bites of each other's desserts. He eyes them as they linger afterwards, talking quietly as the restaurant empties, Weller tracing his fingers over the hexagonal pattern on the back of her hand as he holds it in his over the table. She'd done away with the cardigan early in the evening, somehow having been able to ignore the odd looks from the other guests while Weller's eyes were on her.

When they finally get up to leave, Oscar takes off in the other direction and crosses the street so as not to be noticed, keeping an eye on them over his shoulder every few seconds. They wave off her security detail at the door, preferring to head out into the night together, leaning into each other against the bitter cold as they walk back. Oscar watches them go, and waits until her security detail's gone and there's a couple blocks between them, before making a move to follow them. His extremities are basically already numb from having been outside so long, and he clutches his own coat tighter as he sets off, having nothing else to warm him except fear and anger and jealousy.

He tells himself he's following them because he's concerned about her safety. That is always to be his number-one concern, after all: her safety. That is what his job boils down to, when you've cut away all the rest: Keep her alive. And while Jane—that's what they call her now; Oscar hates that damn name—is more than capable of taking care of herself, he recognizes that there are situations in which even she can be overpowered. And Weller's at least twice her size.

Eventually, they end up back outside his apartment, stopping at just about the same spot as the first place they kissed. The coincidence—if it can be called that—isn't lost on either of them, and for a while, Oscar has to stare at his shoes, and down the street, and up at the sky, as they re-enact that night in extended form, without interruptions. It seems to go for an eternity.

There's little traffic at this time of night, in this neighborhood, and so when they finally pull apart and Weller speaks, Oscar can hear him clearly across the street.

"My sister and Sawyer are out of town for the weekend, if... If you want to come up for a bit. You know, for a drink or something?"

It's a clumsy offer, weakly disguised, but she accepts at once, with such a quick nod that Oscar thinks she would've said yes no matter what he'd asked her to come up for. Oscar wants to tell her that this is all a ruse, that Weller planned things like this, that he asked his sister to head out for the weekend, but from the secretive smile on her face as she follows him inside, he thinks that perhaps she already knows, and is pleased at the preparations.

He waits a while after they go up, watching the door, hoping she'll come right back out. He waits, and stares up at the windows, but he only catches the briefest glimpse of them taking off their coats before they disappear out of sight of the one window that faces the street. He waits and waits. And finally, he knows he has to go home to check.

They're already on the couch, kissing, drinks forgotten on the table, when he turns on the monitors. He almost turns them right back off, but before he can even move, Weller's voice cuts through the static—

"We don't have to do anything." He's panting a little, his breath short, as they break apart, his hands holding her cheeks. "I didn't ask you up here for—"

"I know," she whispers, closing her eyes, pressing her forehead against his. Oscar watches the way her neck moves when she swallows. Watches the way her lips part before she speaks. "But, I also know part of you was hoping—"

"Jane—"

"And a part me was hoping, too, and that's why I said yes," she finishes quickly, her eyes flashing open to find his. "Because I—I'm ready. I want to find out what it's like. With you."

Weller barely has time to smile, and no time to answer, before she's in his lap, straddling him, her arms wrapped around the back of his neck as she kisses him, and for a few seconds, Oscar can do nothing but stare, open-mouthed, unable to look away.

Because this was not in the plans, not in any of them—not Plan A, or B, not even Plan fucking Z (and they'd made one of those, too). She was not supposed to come on to him like this, not supposed to do these things—certainly not where he, Oscar, could see. Oscar knows he should not necessarily be surprised, not after how things have been escalating between them these past few months, but still… It wasn't supposed to be like this! He wants to scream the words. He wants to smash the computers in front of him. He wants to get his gun, and he doesn't know who he wants to shoot anymore, himself, or her, or Weller, but he does know he wants to blow someone's head off.

He watches Weller press his lips to her chest, kissing along the scoop of her dress, before burying his face against her neck. His mouth is insistent against the bird on her neck, and it makes Oscar want to kill them both. He remembers drawing it himself, remembers tattooing it personally to her neck, because he hadn't trusted that particular design with anyone else—because it had to be perfect. It was the last reminder—the only reminder—he could give her of him, of them.

And now it's Weller's, just like everything else. Just like every other goddamn part of her.

"You can touch me, you know." There's a laugh in her voice as she reaches for Weller's hands, which are resting benignly on the tops of her thighs.

"I am touching you," Weller replies, and Oscar can hear him chuckle, too. Can see him squeeze her flesh playfully between his hands. Can see him pull her even closer.

"You can touch me more," she corrects.

And then she does what Oscar has been dreading watching—she leads him. She shows him what she wants. Where she likes to be touched, kissed, and how. Where she wants his hands and his mouth and every other part of him that she can direct.

You only know those things because of me! he wants to shout at her. I kissed you there, I touched you there! I was there before him.

But of course he says nothing. He just watches, silent and enraged and heartbroken, unable to look away. Hardly able to blink. Wishing he had someone—anyone—who could pull him away from this. He thinks that this is what Hell will be like, when he gets there. Like Sisyphus doomed to push that rock up the mountain only to have it fall back down just as it gets to the top, his punishment for his wrongs will be having to sit here and watch, voiceless, powerless, as she so joyously gives her love to someone else.

"Kurt?"

Her voice jerks Oscar out of his stupor as much as it does Weller, and they both freeze for a moment, staring at her. She smiles, and takes Weller's face in her hands. She brushes her fingertips against his beard, stroking his cheeks until his eyes fall closed, as if he can't take even this little pleasure that she is giving him.

"Yes?" he asks, eyes still closed, his nostrils flaring a bit as he tries to slow his breathing and heart rate.

She smiles before bending forward to kiss him, and then pulls back just as he's leaning forward for more. He blinks his eyes open, slowly, one at a time, as if she's the dawn creeping through his window in the morning and he doesn't want to be blinded.

"I want you to take me to bed now."

Weller stares at her for a moment, speechless, as if he can't even begin to contemplate what she's saying—and then his face breaks into a grin, and he's surging forward to kiss her, and she has to throw her arms around his neck so she doesn't fall off his lap and onto the floor. She laughs, at first, but quickly the humor shifts to nothing more than desire, as he wraps her close in his arms and hefts her up against him as he gets to his feet. She locks both her arms and her legs around him, their mouths all but combined into one as they stumble across the living room.

Oscar shuts the screen off when they move into the bedroom. He's seen too much already, and he won't—can't—watch that. It'll be recorded, of course, just like everything else, but he won't watch it. He won't do that to her. He won't do that to himself. Or to them, whatever it is they were, before.

Won't.

Can't.

Won't.

Can't.

Won't—

But he does. He can't help himself. She was always the one to give him discipline, but now she's gone—not only gone from him, but gone to someone else, and as he turns the monitors back on, he wonders if it even matters to her if he watches. She clearly doesn't care for him anymore, if she even ever did. Why should he care for her?

He watches her crawl into bed with Weller and he can feel the weight of his returned engagement ring back in his hand again, as if it's still there, a heavy stone dragging him down. Choking him. Tearing out his insides like they're little more than putty to be used, abused, and abandoned by her. He watches them pull each other free of their clothes, watches them bare themselves to one another happily, eagerly, listens to them laugh and moan and whisper softly to one another. Weller says her name endlessly. Jane, Jane, Jane. Like he's begging, or praying. Or both. Oscar watches Weller kiss the patterns inked on her body as he murmurs her fake name, and he thinks, Would he even know where to kiss her if I hadn't left him an instruction manual to follow?

Would either of them know anything, have anything, if this whole mission had not forced them into each other's orbit? If he, Oscar, had not pulled his weight in helping it all come together?

If Oscar had put his foot down, if he hadn't let her go, if he hadn't agreed to do his part… Would she be back with him, doing this with him, and never even know the name Kurt Weller?

It's useless to imagine, Oscar knows. It makes it hurt all the more. But he can't stop thinking…

Weller is hesitant, worried, when the time finally comes. But of course not hesitant enough to actually stop. Just enough to pause, just enough to ask—

She smiles at his nervousness, and runs her hands over his back, his shoulders, as he crouches above her. "This isn't a test, you know. You don't have to look so serious."

"I just… want to be careful," Weller murmurs. "I want to do this right."

She smiles, reaching a hand up to cup the back of his neck, to massage it, to pull his lips to hers. "It's not my first time, Kurt," she whispers.

"Well, maybe not, but…" He frowns a second, shifting above her, pulling back so he can look her in the eye. "Wait. How do you know that? Did you remember something?"

"I've… I've had dreams," she admits, coloring a little. "Or—maybe memories. I don't know."

"Memories?" Weller sobers at once, everything sharpening, and Oscar can feel himself do the same. He leans closer to the monitor, turns up the volume even though he can hear perfectly fine. "Why haven't you told me?"

"Because—" She hesitates just a moment, before giving him everything: "Because they were sex dreams, Kurt. I wasn't going to tell you about them. We weren't—we were hardly even talking to each other then. This was months and months ago."

"You talked to Borden?" Weller guesses. That's her Bureau-assigned psychiatrist, Oscar recalls dimly. Her doctor.

She nods. Laughs a little. "He, um, he was under the impression that they were about you, actually."

Weller chuckles, and bends down to kiss her neck. "Were they?" he murmurs, switching his mouth from one side to the other. "Was I with you in your dreams, Jane?"

"I don't know. Maybe. I don't remember seeing a face."

Her voice is soft, quiet, and he pulls back to look her in the eye. "What do you remember?" he asks gently.

"Very little," she admits. "Mostly just the feeling of it, the desire. I'd never felt like that before, at least not that I could remember, and it was overpowering at the time..." She shakes her head a little, as if she can't imagine a time where she didn't know what it felt like, to want someone as much and as desperately as she does now. "But there's one image that's stayed with me…" She takes Weller's right arm, running her fingers down across the plain expanse of his forearm. Before she even says another word, Oscar can feel his heart pounding in his chest, because he knows now. It's clear, now: she remembers. She remembers him, them. By her own admission, she's been remembering him for months—remembering making love with him—and yet she is still doing this with Weller. Like what she'd remembered meant nothing. Like it hadn't even been real. "Whoever it was," she murmurs, still running her fingers along Weller's forearm, "he had a tattoo on his inner right arm. A tree, a tall one, with deep roots…"

Oscar feels his own arm itch, burn, feels his eyes do the same, and he knows who he wants to shoot now. He'll blow off his arm that has that goddamn tattoo on it first, and then he'll blow off his own head. Once he's sober enough, once he can hold a gun steady… That's what he'll do. Barrel straight to the temple. Then all this will be over with. Finally.

"Borden seemed to think it was you because of… Of everything with Taylor. He said the tree meant I was looking for stability, for a home, a family, a place to belong and have roots…"

"This isn't about Taylor, Jane. It hasn't been about Taylor in a long time." Weller strokes her cheek very gently, holding her eyes with his. "You and me—it's not about her anymore."

She nods, and there's a flicker on the screen Oscar takes to be her smile. "I know that," she whispers, reaching up to take Weller's face in her hands. "I know that, Kurt, you don't have to say—"

"I want to say it," he interrupts. "I want you to know that this… You…" He shakes his head. He never has been good with words. "This is all I've wanted," he murmurs finally, cupping the edges of her shoulders, rubbing his thumbs gently against her skin. "You're all I've been thinking about for a long while now. You and me. Just you and me, Jane. Nobody else."

Beneath him, she smiles a little, her eyes falling closed briefly. "Come here, then," she instructs quietly, her hands pulling at his back, his shoulders, his sides. "Show me what you've been thinking about."

"Only if you show me what you've been dreaming about."

She laughs a moment, but it's short-lived as their lips meet, and their bodies rise and fall to join, and Oscar has to shut off the monitors then, as her warm laugh turns into a desperate gasp of Weller's name, one that rings in his ears even after the screens have gone dark.

Kurt, Kurt, Kurt…

Oscar does something then that he's never done before: he leaves her unmonitored. For the first time in over half a year, he abandons her as she has him. He goes out and he runs, fast and hard, and then harder: until his feet ache and his knees are killing him from pounding on the concrete and his lungs are burning from the freezing midnight air, and then he keeps going. He doesn't stop until his body forces him to, until he doubles over in exhaustion, the world swaying around him as his vision fills and swims and his legs tremble uncontrollably beneath him. When he slips to his knees and vomits, bile rising up his throat and out onto the pavement, he tells himself it's only because he hasn't been exercising much these past few months.

Kurt, Kurt, Kurt…

He walks the whole way back, alone, through the cold, soaked through with frozen sweat. He passes Weller's place, and hers, before he finally reaches his own. He has a drink when he gets inside. And another. And another. Each one makes him feel further and further away from reality. He finds he likes this faraway place. It makes everything else seem like a bad dream, an old nightmare just barely remembered.

Sometime in the night, perhaps hours later, perhaps minutes, he does what he always does when he drinks: he goes looking for her. He's too unsteady on his feet, so he doesn't bother getting up and leaving; he just turns the monitors back on, one at a time. He checks her apartment first, watching for minutes and minutes, hoping to see proof of her in the desolate space. Hoping to see her coat hung up, or her shoes by the door, or her purse slung on a chair. But there's nothing. Her apartment is empty.

He pours himself another drink, and finishes half of it in one swallow, before cursing himself aloud and turning on the other monitors.

"Are you still there?"

Oscar jumps in his chair at the sound of Weller's voice, spilling the rest of his drink on himself, panicked for a crazed second that he somehow knows—

"Yeah," she murmurs, rustling in his bed, turning to face him. "What is it?"

Oscar realizes too late that he left the audio on when he shut off the computers, and he breathes a sigh of relief even as he shies away from the sound. He reaches out a few fumbling fingers to turn it down. Not off, just down. Because even he can't ever abandon her completely, not even now, not even when she's with him…

"It's nothing. I was just wondering if you were still awake."

Oscar watches her smile, and reach a hand out to stroke his cheek in the darkness. She seems so very fond of touching him at quiet moments like this one, Oscar's noticed over the past couple of months; it's as if she needs to remind herself that Weller's real when he's with her. In a drunken stupor, Oscar thinks he can prove the reality to her by sending her the tapes. It takes him a while to realize that that isn't necessary. She has all the proof she needs, right in front of her.

"How are you?" she asks, her fingertips still brushing against his cheek.

"Relived," he answers at once, laughing a little, as he turns on his side to meet her eye.

She blinks at him, surprised. "Relieved? Why?"

"I thought I was going to screw this up. I kept expecting that I was going to do something wrong, or you were going to get upset, or…" He trails off, all his unnecessary worry revealed in its true form.

She's quiet for a few seconds. Then, just as he's starting to turn away again, she says, "Not everything good has to get ruined, you know. You don't need to live your life waiting for the next bad thing to happen, Kurt. There can be good parts, too, that don't end up turning bad."

Weller stares at her for a few charged seconds after she finishes speaking, and even Oscar, miles away, a few swallows away from blacking out, and watching them from a surveillance system, can feel the tension there. Out of the three of them, he's the only one that doesn't feel the relief when it breaks: when Weller reaches forward and pulls her into a tight hug, burying his face in her shoulder, whispering his thanks against the bird on her neck.

They don't say or do much after that. When he eventually releases her, and starts to lie back on his side of the bed, she instinctively seems to gravitate towards him. She tucks herself under his arm, lying against his chest, and after a few minutes, they each fall asleep like that, still a little tangled up in one another.

Oscar watches them for a little while after that, watches them as they move apart and back together as they sleep, each seeming to seek and find comfort in one another, even if it is unconsciously. He watches them until he, too, falls asleep.

He doesn't wake until hours later, when clatter of metal cuts through his sleepy head, jerking him away. He jumps up, his head much too heavy, and his forehead, neck, back, legs, killing him… Immediately, though, his eyes turn to the screens, searching for the source of the sound. It's Weller, in the kitchen, making breakfast. He's mixing a number of eggs in a bowl, and throwing in a variety of vegetables and cheese, and even though Oscar can't smell it through the screen, his stomach still turns as he watches Weller pour the yolky mixture into a pan. He's about to start searching for a trashcan in case he has to vomit when he hears her voice.

"Hey."

Weller turns at once, his face breaking in a wide grin when he sees her standing there, loitering just inside the kitchen, as if she isn't sure she's allowed in. He waves her over, and Oscar watches as Weller's eyes dip down, taking in the clothes she's borrowed—an old Bureau t-shirt of his, and what appears to be nothing else. Even Oscar can't really blame the guy when he crosses the room without a word, gathering her in his arms and kissing her soundly.

She's smiling when he pulls away, arms still around her, but a few inches separating their mouths. For now.

"So I guess I don't have to ask how you're feeling after last night, huh?" she teases, linking her arms around the back of his neck.

In lieu of answering her, he kisses her again, one hand splayed out across the side of her neck to hold her close. She wraps her thin arms around his back, lifting herself up on the tips of her toes once more, to match his height, as they stumble back a bit in over-zealousness, eventually finding support against the fridge, with Weller lifting her up against it. They don't let go of each other until a sharp, high-pitched shriek breaks through the morning, making them both jump, and making Oscar flinch even at the volume.

"Shit," Weller mutters, depositing her quickly on the ground as he runs to the stove, removing the burning pan and waving a hand to dissipate the smoke that set off the alarm.

"What's wrong? What is it?" she calls over the cry of the fire alarm, peering over his shoulder as he moves the burned wreck of a pan into the sink, and tries and fails to scrape out the food that had once been cooking there. It's caked on.

"I wanted… I tried to cook us breakfast."

"Oh…" She frowns at the charred remains of the omelettes. "That would've… been nice."

He abandons the pan after the alarm finally quiets, and rubs the embarrassment out of his face with both hands. "Yeah," he mutters, "It would've."

She pauses by his side, allowing him to mourn the perfect morning for a moment. "How about this," she proposes, steering him away from the mess, "we could go out and get breakfast. There has to be a good coffee shop near you, right? We could get some breakfast sandwiches, or bagels…"

Weller's mouth turns up a bit at the idea. "There is a good place about two blocks away," he admits. He catches her eye as he places a hand on her waist, and pulls her a little closer. "But how would you feel about bringing it back here?"

"I was hoping you'd say something like that."

Oscar beats them there, as it turns out, and while he waits for them to arrive, he refuses to imagine what they could be doing that might delay them. He orders a coffee and sips at it, pretending it's helping with his hangover, as he takes a spot by the window to watch them approach.

They come in from the west, hand in hand, Weller in his usual get-up of jeans and a button-down, and her in what Oscar can only guess are Weller's sister's clothes. She certainly isn't wearing the dress from last night, or that old Bureau shirt, that's for sure.

Oscar turns to the side as they approach and step inside, tipping his head away so they can't see his face but so he can still hear. They discuss for a couple minutes, rifling through the various options on the menu, before settling. She gets a sesame bagel with lox and he gets a breakfast sandwich, a sort of reincarnation of the omelette he'd been trying to make earlier. They chatter about trivialities as they wait for their food, reminiscing about the dinner they had the night before, and how cold the weather is, and how much they'd both really like their breakfast right now.

It doesn't take too long.

Their drinks are finished first, and she takes them both, sipping from hers before glancing his way—and, when she notices him occupied with getting the rest of the order and paying, she tries his, too. From the look on her face that he can see reflected in the window of the coffee shop, Oscar can't be sure if she likes it or not. Then again, he isn't sure about anything that relates to her anymore.

As a large group of twenty-somethings steps into the shop, suddenly crowding its small space, she calls out to Weller that she'll meet him outside. Noticing that he's preoccupied with balancing his change and their food at the same time, Oscar takes the opportunity to slip out the door behind her.

He bumps into her gently on the way out, just enough so she loses a step, but nothing more. He tries not to think of this as the first contact they've had in over half a year. Tries not to remember the last time he touched her, before all this. "Oh, I'm sorry," he murmurs, ducking his head as he steps around her. "My bad."

"It's all right." Her voice is light, easy. Happy. He hasn't heard her sound happy in a long while. "No need to apologize; nothing spilled."

When he glances up, Oscar catches just the briefest glimpse of her smile before she starts to turn away and, like a magnet, she draws the words out of him.

"Excuse me, but—" She turns back around at the sound of his voice addressing her, and it takes all his willpower to sound casual as he speaks, all his willpower not to pull her to him and crush her in a hug and never let her go, never again. "Have we met before?"

He holds his breath as she stares at him, immediately put on guard. He knows she has never encountered a person that has recognized her before; he has made sure of that. Never before has anyone in the world approached her as he is now.

"Have we?" she asks back, and he sees her bright green eyes light up with curiosity as she takes a step closer to him. The movement makes his heart throb in his chest, as if it's aching to jump back into her hands where it belongs. "Do you know me?" she presses, peering at him closely now. "Do you know my name?"

He waits, longs for the moment of recognition, for that brilliant flash he used to see in her eyes whenever he walked into a room—but there's nothing. Those green eyes of hers hold nothing but hope and curiosity; they want to know, but they don't know.

He lingers on her final question, wondering if he says her name, her true name, will she recognize it? Will she come back to him, finally? Will that be all it takes, just a name? The right name? He watches her, eyes guarded, hoping, hoping, that if he looks at her long enough she'll see the truth—

But her eyes are as blank as ever, blank as they've been since the moment he watched her go under, and he's too scared that she won't recognize the name to so much as whisper it aloud in her presence.

"No, sorry, I guess I don't know you after all," he murmurs, knowing he should look away from her face but unable to. He hasn't been this close to her in over half a year. How has he survived being so far away from her? "Just a mistake."

"But if you've seen me before, met me before—"

His throat sticks as she presses the point. She wants so badly to know, and he wishes he had the words to tell her. He wishes he had the ability to explain. But even back then, when all this had started, he hadn't known a way to explain. He doesn't think he ever will. She was really the only one that ever knew the full scope of this thing, anyway.

"Hi. Who's this?"

Oscar has to close his eyes when Weller joins them, because he doesn't trust himself to be able to look that man in the face right now like a normal person. He doesn't trust himself not to glare at him, spit at him, punch him right in his fucking face—

Kurt, Kurt, Kurt…

"Nobody," Oscar says quickly, forcing up a smile, briefly eyeing them both so as not to seem overly strange or suspicious. By the time he looks up, Weller's got his hand on her back, and Oscar can't help but notice the way she shifts into him as he touches her, as if this is normal. Already, this is normal for her. He is normal.

"I just thought she was somebody I knew. She's not."

He wants to scream and shake her, and ask her Why?

Why him and not me?

Why why why why WHY?

What in the hell have I done wrong? I did everything you said! I did it all for you! Do you think I wanted this? Do you think I chose to follow you around like this?

But he says none of it. He knows better. He knows it would get him nowhere, because all that would come from her would be question after question, no feeling, no memory, no love. And as torturous as it is to watch her with Weller, at least when he sees them together he knows she isn't making a choice between the two of them. She sees one option before her, and nothing behind. And so she goes with what she knows.

He tries to will that knowledge to be a comfort, and not a condemnation. Not an erasure.

But when he watches them go, hand in hand again, it doesn't feel like anything else than a rewriting of history. He wonders, again, if she planned it this way. If she wanted it this way. If this is the big sign he's been waiting for from her—not to stay and wait it out, but to go.

He had hoped—oh, God, he had so, so hoped—that there would still be some part of her left behind after it all. He had hoped that some part of them would still be alive, some part of him still left in her, after all their time together. But she's shed him like she's shed everything else, it appears. Replaced him like she replaced everything else. New body, new mind, new name, new job, new man.

Oscar stays standing in the middle of the sidewalk outside the coffee shop, watching Weller's back as they walk away, watching him look over his shoulder and frown when he sees they still have an audience. Oscar waits, expecting him to come back. Hoping he'll come back. God, Oscar would do anything for an excuse to be able to beat the living shit out of that man. But Weller doesn't make a move to return. He just stares, looking back every couple steps, and it's not until the two of them are about to turn the corner, and Weller looks back for what will be the last time, that Oscar can't help himself.

He straightens up a bit, takes a few steps forward, and makes sure he has Weller's attention, before mouthing the words. He takes care in over-exaggerating the syllables so Weller will be able to read them even from this distance, with less than a half-block between them:

She was mine before she was yours, Weller.

Oscar hates himself as he thinks it, hates himself as he mouths it down the sidewalk. It's ugly and primal and possessive and it is all the things he never was with her, not ever, and yet—

It's true, too.

It's one of the only truths he has left to subsist on. Because all the others are gone. All the rest has been erased, along with her memory and her identity and them. But little bits of the truth remain, in his memories, and even in her dreams, apparently…

Oscar finds himself grinning, thinking of the conversation he'd eavesdropped on the night before, as Weller falters to a stop just before the corner and turns fully back around to face Oscar. Weller is staring at him, dumbfounded now, as he mouths the words to himself and tries to catch up, tries to understand. Oscar's smile widens, turning malicious, as he reaches a hand down to yank the right sleeve of his coat up past his elbow, baring the permanent, tattooed image of a tall tree with deep roots on his right forearm so Weller can see, and finally understand.

Oscar watches the truth dawn on Weller's face in something like slow motion: he watches his eyes widen, watches his mouth fall open. Watches his mind shift, first rejecting and then believing, all at once. Oscar watches him drop their breakfast to the ground, a hand flying to his hip before he remembers he's not wearing a holster, let alone a gun—

And then there's no slow motion anymore, Weller's sprinting down the sidewalk, barreling towards Oscar, ordering him to stay still under the authority of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, his voice mixing with his girlfriend's shouts from behind him as she demands to know what in the world is happening, what is he doing, why is he running—KURT!

Oscar gauges the distance, Weller's speed, and he guesses that he has about fifteen more seconds until the fed's on him. He takes three of those precious seconds to just stand there and laugh, spreading his arms wide as he relishes in it all, the truth finally set free. He knows he will not get another chance to stick it to Weller, and so he makes the most of this moment. The air is cold, but his tattoo feels hot, warm, triumphant on his arm. He lets it hang there, in the space between him and Weller, for those precious three seconds. That tattoo has been haunting him, torturing him for months, reminding him every day of all that he has lost and is continuing to lose, and yet in this moment, it feels like some sort of blessing. Let it haunt Weller from now on instead.

Just three seconds he wastes. And then he uses the rest of the time allotted to him to run, taking off as fast as humanly possible down the nearest narrow street he can find. His legs are tearing themselves apart with the exertion after his impromptu marathon last night, and his lungs wheeze with protest, and his head still throbs violently from all the liquor he ingested in the past twelve hours, but he forces himself on nonetheless, forces himself to turn the sound of Weller's feet pounding just behind him into nothing more than fading, faint footsteps, growing ever quieter as he, Oscar, speeds ahead. Because the last thing she'd told him before she went under, the last thing she'd made him promise her before she'd left him behind to fend for himself?

Never, ever let them take you alive, O. I need you watching over me until it's done. Please.

She may be gone, she may be someone else, she may be with someone else, but he doesn't intend to let down her memory, or her mission, in the face of all that. Not on this count. Not on any count. He will do whatever it takes to protect her, and protect her end goal, because he knows she—the real her—would do the same for him if their places were reversed. She would put duty to the mission over love for him in a heartbeat, because for them, duty is love. And in the end, it is all that will survive after they're both gone.

Author's Note: Oscar just kills me, man. I don't know about you all, but the more I watch the end of 1x10, the more upset I get about all that he's lost, and all that he'll have to deal with in the next half of the season. Poor guy. :(

If you have some time, I'd love to hear your thoughts. I'd really like to know if I did Oscar (and all the rest) some justice. Thank you for reading. :)