Chapter 3

Upon his arrival to Mayfair's office, she directs Weller to sit. She raises her eyebrows, gaze sharp, and begins without preamble. "Well?"

"She was outnumbered, pushed into a van, and drugged. Our favorite CIA…former CIA deputy director seemed to believe that she knew more than she's letting on, and set about questioning her, using his preferred methods. She didn't see who shot Carter. Shortly after that, we showed up," he summarizes, certain she already had the gist of it.

"Do you believe her?" Mayfair asks coolly, as if suggesting that perhaps he should not.

He bristles in response, ready to argue, leaping to Jane's defense. "Yes, of course I do. Why shouldn't I? Do you know something I don't? She's been a capable member of this team—"

Mayfair interrupts him, tone of voice unchanged, a humorless smile on her face. "You may want to keep that 'professional distance', Weller, and have a good look at the crime scene photos and case details before you make any assumptions."

"What are you trying to say, ma'am?" Kurt responds stiffly, moving to stand and exit. Mayfair doesn't answer his question.

"She wasn't in her safe house at the time, was she? There are some good agents that will have to answer for that. Don't let your feelings cloud your judgment, Weller. There are many moving parts here, and connections we haven't yet seen. I need your eyes and ears to be wide open as we put it all together," Mayfair directed, ignoring Weller's discomfited shifting.

"That includes having an unbiased look at our mysterious tattooed 'consultant' to see how her past may fit in to all this. Someone else has been watching her, and decided to come to her rescue, right under our noses. Why was she allowed to return to us? Did she know this person? Was he the same individual that called in the tip? Was this person a current or former ally?"

She paused, fingers steepled under her chin. "Is my point clear, Weller?"

"Yes ma'am," he responds evenly, jaw set.

"Get that report on my desk," she commands, dismissing him.

"Yes ma'am," he repeats, gritting his teeth, exiting. He grumbles to himself as he heads toward his desk, sweeping his coat off its hook and shrugging it on. He needed to get out of the office for a little while, clear his head, and do some thinking by himself before going over the photos and details. How was it that Mayfair already suspected or knew Jane had been in his vicinity when she was kidnapped? Was his fondness toward the tattooed mystery woman that apparent? Mayfair insinuating that there was more than what met the eye, at the crime scene…unbelievable.

But she was right…he had to emotionally back away from the investigation on this one. He was too close. He did care entirely too much to maintain a clinical distance. Besides, he and Jane had tried that once, and the misery wasn't worth it.

Not like he was worth anything to her, anyway. The guilt and anger were nearly overwhelming, and he could hardly focus, the self-accusations floating wraithlike through his mind. Why hadn't he offered to walk her back? They would've been more evenly matched against multiple opponents; they had proved at Dotcom's bash that they fought well in concert, hadn't they? Why didn't he offer to drive? The kidnappers could have then been avoided completely.

Distracted, moving on autopilot into the elevators, he noticed too late that Jane was a on a beeline toward him, slipping in just before the doors closed.

"It's not your fault," she blurted out before he could react. His eyes met the startling green of hers, slightly rimmed with the tired red of having had no sleep, and his heart jumped involuntarily. His entire body was suddenly overly aware of her close proximity, as if the very air was charged.

"Jane, no," he tried to argue, weakly. Could she not feel the guilt and despair emanating from him? But she was having none of it. "You were the one kidnapped and hurt. Don't worry about me."

"It's not your fault," she insisted, voice soft, stepping closer. "I can take care of myself, you know that. And who's to say it wouldn't have happened anyway, at some later time or place? I went to your place all by myself, with no issues. It wasn't the first time I'd been out by myself, either…no problems or kidnappings then."

Despite himself, he could feel the corner of his mouth lifting. "You know, Jane, you're really not making me feel better, knowing that this wasn't the first time you'd slipped your detail," he shook his head, the disapproving tone lightened by his expression.

She smiled shyly in return, and he fights the urge to take her in his arms, as the elevator has almost made its slow, rattling way down to the basement parking garage. "Where are you headed?" he asks instead.

"I'm supposed to meet up with my detail down here, to be taken back to my safe house," she responds, masking her relief in his change of subject. "I've been ordered to go get some sleep."

She follows him to his SUV, as the detail had not yet arrived. He glances up at the security cameras scattered throughout the garage, calculating, losing an internal battle. "Jane, stand right here." He gently pushes her up against the side of the SUV.

"Why—" she only has time to utter a syllable before his mouth is on hers, the length of his body pressed to hers, radiating heat through their clothes. Her knees are weak, but pressed between the vehicle and solidness of his body, she's not going anywhere. His right hand cradles her face, thumb skimming her cheekbone, and his left arm is propped against the door as he leans down to kiss her thoroughly, with an intensity not present in her earlier gentle, searching kiss (was it only last night that her world had been upended, in more ways than one?). She gasps, pulling in a shuddering breath as his mouth moves to the curve of her neck, his beard tracing a line of fire down her throat before moving to ravage her mouth again. She runs her hands up his chest and clutches at the lapels of his coat, hanging on for dear life.

He pulls away when they hear the sound of an oncoming vehicle moving through the garage, resting his forehead against hers as they catch their breath. "I'm glad you're back safe with us, Jane. …One of these days we won't be interrupted," he adds, voice low. She shivers with anticipation at the intent in his words, feeling instantly bereft as he steps away.

"Get some sleep," he orders her as she turns toward her detail's SUV, pulling up near the elevator. "See you tomorrow." He offers her a lopsided grin when he realizes when and where he'd last heard that phrase, and is gratified when she quickly turns to shoot him a flushed smile in return, biting her lower lip as if to resist it.

Collecting himself, Kurt nods at the agents in the driver and passenger seats, striving for a suitably businesslike expression. He's unable to tear his eyes away until Jane climbs into the backseat, shutting the door securely behind her.

He finally opens the door of his vehicle, sitting down heavily, closing his eyes as he leans against the seat back. His heart is still racing, nerves jangling. What the hell was he thinking? He had acted like a man possessed, kissing her, whispering promises in her ear. He was the lead agent on her case, which had turned into a clusterfuck of epic proportions overnight. She'd been kidnapped and tortured, on his watch; on top of escaping from the protection of her detail and safe house…slipping out to kiss him, as if he was worthy of such a thing. And then the CIA black site. And Carter, dead.

Kurt's thoughts would not fall into order and precision, as if he was hungover or drugged. He shook his head, trying to dispel the chaotic mix of desire, guilt, and anger, and drove out of the parking garage.

He ended up parked outside his own apartment, but didn't go in. Drawn by the masochistic need to see for himself, Kurt strolls to the approximate location where Jane had been taken. The hedge is only slightly disturbed, the sidewalk clear. No blood had been spilled, no sign of the desperate scuffle that had taken place just last night. Last night, while he'd been upstairs with Sawyer, safe and warm, grinning like an idiot as he left Jane a voicemail to make sure she'd gotten home safely. Idiot, indeed. How could he have been so irresponsible?

Lost in his thoughts, he doesn't notice the white cargo van driving slowly down the street, a tree-tattooed man at the wheel, watching.