It's Wrong, But Surely Worst To Leave.

"Are you having a lovers quarrel?"

Kurt Weller cringes. He should be used to this by now, the random, uncomfortable questions that Tasha Zapata has a knack for springing on him at inopportune moments. He knows that she gets a kick out of it, and he wants to tell her to knock it off—that she's no Rich Dotcom, but thinking about that asshole just makes him even more mad. He doesn't need anymore help in the self-depreciating department, he does just find on his own, thank you very much.

"What do you want, Tasha?" Kurt glances down and to the side at his shorter, prettier coworker. He pulls the tie at his neck out of nervous habit, but he still feels uncomfortable in the three piece tux no matter how many times he tries to adjust it. This kind of stuff is what Reade, the resident agency debonair, lived for, but not him. Unfortunately, Mayfair had made the annual interagency gala mandatory for their entire department this year, so as much as Kurt would like to shirk his duties and go hide in his apartment, he'd probably get demoted over it.

"I want to know why you're avoiding your date." Tash sidles up next to him, her third glass of government budget Shiraz in hand. The dark red of the wine matches the dark red of her dress. She watches Kurt start to fiddle with his tie again, and she swats his hand away, straightening it for him with the kind of murderous scowl he's only ever seen from his sister, or from his mother during his childhood when he served as an alter boy. He'd learned his lesson early that women never liked it when you sullied their good work, especially if it had anything to do with dressing you. Tash has made herself very clear: Don't touch it again.

"Who said I was avoiding her?" Kurt frowns, attempting to deflect, but it only makes Tash latch on more, like a bulldog, or a piranha. A very insistent piranha.

"Past experience has taught me if you take care of business at home, business everywhere else will take care of itself," Tash waggles her eyebrows, bold because of the alcohol, not even bothering to hide the suggestion behind what she said. "I know what dissatisfied women look like, Kurt. Jane fits the bill, what gives?"

"Christ, Zapata, really? We never should have told you we were dating."

"I would have found out. Trust me, this way is less painful."

"Suspending you so I don't have to see your face for a week would be less painful."

Kurt grunts when she nails him in the shoulder wit her fist, several glasses of wine, four inch stilettos and a split in her dress past her mid-thigh hardly throwing off her aim. He's not sure whether he should be concerned, or impressed, but he's certainly aggravated—then again Tash is an aggravating person. Kurt scowls down at her as a two couples pass by on their way to the dance floor, and she waves amicably at them as if nothing has happened, smiling like the perfect angel she isn't.

"So are you going to sit here all night and sulk against the wall, like the guy at prom who didn't get picked to dance, or are ya gonna do something about it?" Tash raises an eyebrow at him, finishing off the last of her drink just as a passing waiter with a tray sweeps by, and she trades her empty glass out for a full one. "You're both stubborn to a fault, if you'd get over that, you could resolve this ridiculous sexual tension that's polluting the workplace, and we could all get back to our regularly scheduled programs."

Kurt's not drinking anything, but if he had been, he would've choked on it. He chokes on thin air instead.

"I'm going to suspend you Tash, if you don't stop, I'm gonna do it."

"You said that last week, and obviously you have a problem following through—if you know what I mean—so sorry buddy, doubt it'll happen."

"I swear to god, Natasha—"

Tash doesn't even blink at the use of her full name, something that at the very least usually warrants an eye twitch, or a frown, but she just smiles that demure smile of hers and pats Kurt's back in mock reassurance.

"Oh, well, I see my date, so I'll have to leave you," Tash looks into the crowd, at someone he can't pin point. "I think I saw Jane by the punch bowl chatting up some guy from Homeland Security, you might want to check on that, Agent Weller. Although, maybe it'd do you some good to have a little healthy competition." Tash winks at him, squeezing his arm with a wicked grin before slipping into the crowd of ballroom dancers and disappearing from sight.

Kurt sighs, and after some internal debate on if he's really going to let one of his subordinate agents win a game of psychological warfare against him, and trying to remember the names of the Homeland Security agents on the guest list, he makes an executive decision and heads in a beeline for the punch bowl.

Tash might have been an instigating asshole, but she's not a liar, and sure enough Kurt spots Jane in the corner, nursing a drink and entertaining someone he doesn't recognize. He doesn't need to know who it is though to decide, instantly, that he doesn't like them. No, it's fairly easy for him to channel his unjustified dislike (or hatred) based solely on the fact that this man, this stranger, is all but breathing down Jane's neck.

When she spots Kurt, he gets a sick sense of satisfaction out of the look of relief that floods her face, the please help me eyes, and he saunters forward purposefully and comes to stand beside her, making sure to force the other man to step back by crossing his path. He interrupts the conversation as he slips his arm around Jane's shoulders and levels the younger, suddenly startled Homeland Security agent with steely blue eyes.

"This is my boyfriend," Jane picks up the conversation as if nothing has happened, as if Kurt hasn't just told this other man to fuck off by glaring daggers at him, "Kurt, this is Simon Watts, Simon, this is Kurt Weller. He heads the FBI Critical Response unit here in New York."

"Oh, the same one you work for?" Simon smiles, but it's flat, having clearly lost his confidence, "nice to meet you, Agent Weller." Simon tries his best at being cordial, but Kurt's not buying it, and when the young man offers his hand in greeting Kurt makes sure to grip a little harder than he normally would have.

"Nice to meet you, too." Kurt's smile isn't flat, but it isn't friendly either. Hostile would probably be the most appropriate description. Or maybe menacing. He turns to Jane though, and his expression instantly softens when he looks at her, and he nods his head to the hall that leads out of the ballroom and into the lobby of the convention center. "You mind if we go for a walk?"

"Sure," Jane links her arm through his, glancing back at Simon with faux apology, pausing to wave farewell. Kurt doesn't pause though, all but dragging her away. She might remember her manners, but he does not, and right now he doesn't particularly care. Homeland Security never liked the FBI anyway.

When they're outside the ballroom, back in the quiet, near deserted lobby, Kurt can't help but breathe out a sigh of relief. He's not one for big crowds or loud music, all of which he'd been subjected to the past hour. Out here where they're the only two people besides the occasional passing hotel stuff, he can breathe, and think straight. More importantly he'll be able to spot Zapata before she can ambush him again. The only thing that could possibly make this better is if he hadn't been in a yelling match with the woman on his arm twelve hours prior to now.

Kurt glances down at Jane as they walk away from the din of the gala, pausing at the far wall of the lobby where the halls start leading back into the main part of the hotel, away from the convention center. He can't help but stare sometimes, especially now, when she's not looking at him. As aggravated as he is with Tash, he makes note to thank both her and Patterson for taking Jane shopping. The green dress with the deep v cut in the front and the low dip in the back is lovely, but Jane makes it stunning.

She's the breathtaking, heart skipping kind of beautiful, and it pains him to look at her just as much as it pains him to look away.

Jane spins in his arms, and Kurt's taken aback when she places the flat of her palms against his chest, unprepared for the close contact when surely their earlier argument was still fresh in her mind. It's still fresh in his, and he recalls, clearly, how she'd hurled her holster at his head in the locker room that morning. Luckily, she missed, though he suspects she did so on purpose.

"I'm sorry." Jane says suddenly, quickly, and he's even less prepared to hear those words come out of her mouth. An apology, after everything he said this morning, is the last thing he expects. If anything he's the one who should be apologizing, for losing his shit, for letting his temper get the best of him.

"You don't have anything to be sorry for, Jane," Kurt murmurs, feeling guilty, feeling terrible, and he wishes he could take it all back. Here they are, two months into trying to figure out how to navigate this, them, and he's already fucking it up. History repeats itself, and he knows he has a knack for driving women away because of his inability to admit any fault, but also because he internalizes the stuff that hurts the most until it explodes. He doesn't want that to keep happening, especially not now.

"I was stupid, this morning, breaking off from the team." Jane shakes her head, frowning, brow furrowed. "I should be sorry."

"When I said you were being reckless today, in the field, when I said you were being careless, it wasn't because I was mad at you Jane…" Kurt breathes out, his hands at her waist, a frown on his face as he tries to find the right words to explain himself, to make her understand. "I'm sorry too, I am. I shouldn't have lost it like that, but I did because it scares me when you put yourself in danger. If that raid had gone sideways, if you'd gotten cornered, or shot… I just don't want you to get hurt."

I just don't want to lose you.

He can't say that though.

Jane's green eyes search his face. He waits, and prays, that she'll say something, that she'll acknowledge his confession with some sort of affirmation. And she does. Before he can say anything else she's drawing him closer, and her lips taste like forgiveness on his, her sigh breathing redemption back into him as her hands link together behind his neck.

"I'll try to do better," Jane whispers, and he wishes she didn't look so sad, so distraught, "promise."

"I will too," Kurt rests his forehead against hers briefly, memorizing the solid feel of her beneath his hands, the curve of her small waist, the flat of her shoulder blades. He can't imagine her not being here, in his arms, not being able to hear the sound of her breathing in his ear, or feel the steady beat of the pulse beneath the bird on her neck. And if Tash hadn't taken the sniper out in the shipyard that morning, while Jane was apprehending the gunman on the ground…

"Kurt?"

"Hm."

"Come with me," Jane says, though with no indication as to where they're going. She steps away from him, graceful in the black Jimmy Choo pumps that Tash had hand picked for her. He can't help but trace the elegant curve of her back as she walks forward, following the line of her spine down to her ass, and Kurt would've been frozen in place, gawking like a teenage boy, if it weren't for the fact that her hand is wrapped around his.

"Where are we going?"

"The bathroom."

Her reply is flippant, as if he should known exactly where they're going, but he can't help but notice the edge in her voice, the look in her eyes whens he glances back over her shoulder at him and grins. She must have scoped out the building before hand, being the overachiever that she is, because she leads them further down the hall away from the convention center to a more secluded alcove, and into a single private family bathroom, upon which she promptly locks the door behind them.

The voice in his head, the one that belongs to Supervisory Special Agent Kurt Weller, is currently giving him a list of reasons as to why this is a terrible idea, and yet he does nothing to stop it.

He doesn't have a lot of time to think about it, really, because she's kissing him again, and it's far less chaste than the one in the lobby had been. Kurt reacts out of instinct, one hand tangling in her hair, tilting her head back to expose her neck to him, the other at the small of her back, pulling her closer. She's all too willing to do as he pleases, and the soft moan as he trails his lips from her mouth to the tender spot of her neck is enough to make him moan in turn. Damn her, he thinks, had she planned this the entire time?

Meanwhile, the less virtuous and noble part of him that's willing to do almost anything to see her naked is censoring all the reasonable parts of his brain that would otherwise have him running in the opposite direction. He's never been very good at telling her no, but he's most definitely not very good at telling her no when she's demanding he unzip her dress, all while her deft fingers are working at removing his belt.

"We shouldn't be doing this," Kurt murmurs against her mouth, as if hastily pointing out the obvious while she steps out of her dress, and then lets him back her up to the sink, somehow justifies what they're doing.

"Don't care," Jane gasps when he grabs her by the waist, effortlessly lifting her up onto the marble countertop.

He supposes that's justification enough.

Her ballgown—now lying on the floor behind them with his jacket and waistcoat and pants—isn't the kind that's worn with bras, and Kurt follows the swell of each breast, then down the plain of her stomach to the simple, black lace underwear she still has on. Kurt raises an eyebrow appreciatively, and she shrugs, smug with herself as he gets to his knees, hooking his index fingers in the on either side of her hips to pull them down, past the scrolls and figures and topography marks, around her ankles and over her pumps.

"They're your favorite," she points out.

"They're my favorite when you're not wearing them," he corrects.

Kurt thinks they should probably be a little worried, or at the very least concerned that someone will start looking for them if they're gone much longer, and yet the less inhibited part of him finds it more pressing to pay attention to things like her spread legs, and the fact that she's still wearing her heels when he hooks her knees over his shoulders.

She's impatient, which given their shrinking window of opportunity actually works in their favor, but Kurt doesn't rush.

He trails his lips in languid succession up each of her inner thighs, past each symbol and each image inked into her skin, and she shudders at the contact, leans hear head back in frustration as he grips her hips and shifts her closer to the edge of her marble throne. One of her hands lies flat against the cool stone surface, the other in his hair, trying to not-so-subtly encourage him in the right direction. When his tongue finally traces a clear line through the center of her, lingering at the sensitive bundle of nerves at the apex, her sigh is one of relief. However, his fingers soon have her arched into his hand, into his mouth, and the sighs become wanton gasps that reduce her to begging while his free hand grips her hip firmly, holding her in place despite her protests.

"Kurt, please."

She's close, he can feel her clench around his fingers as he hooks them inside her, in and out, his mouth unrelenting as he works. It isn't until she's reduced to uncontrollable trembling around him, her legs pulling him closer as they clutch at his back and her hands gripping the countertop, that he knows she's about to give it up—and she does.

It's beautiful really, watching her orgasm, she is beautiful, and he lives for that complete look of bliss on her face. It's the only time she's lost in herself entirely, the only time she allows herself to be completely selfish, and he never wants to forget how she looks when she's like that—he never wants to forget that he's the only one who can give that to her.

She's breathless as he gently pulls her legs back over his shoulders, and they dangle with lifeless, satisfied exhaustion as he stands up. Her eyes close, her head lolling in contentment on her slender neck. Kurt settles himself between her legs again, and she smiles even though her eyes remain closed, because she can feel him pressed against her, and she can taste herself when he kisses her, hungry and insatiable. Jane sighs into his mouth, glad to have his shoulders to dig her nails into instead of the marble underneath her.

"Can you stand up?" He whispers in her ear, biting at the sensitive flesh of her lobe, his hands cupping her legs beneath the knee, holding her close.

"You're very, very good," Jane slides out of his grasp, off the countertop with ease, "but not quite that good."

She winks at him, somewhat to Kurt's chagrin, though he's hardly going to complain. She's almost as tall as him in her heels, and so they stand nearly eye to eye, chest to chest, and she makes quick work of his tie, and then his shirt, never once looking away from him except to make sure they joined the rest of the clothes in the pile near the door. She kisses him, her tongue tracing the line of his lips, one hand splayed against his chest, the other reaching for his erection.

"Not like this," Kurt shakes his head, and he grabs her wrists, pulling them back up, crossing them over her chest as he leans forward to whisper in her ear. "I want you to watch—turn around."

She does as he requests, and he retrieves his wallet from his pants pocket, retrieves the condom she blessedly started making him keep there, and returns to stand behind her. She's bent forward, her hands splayed against the marble, and he looks at their reflection in the square victorian mirror that covers the full upper half of the wall. Her face is flushed, the distinctive rise and fall of her ribcage still visible, and her eyes are heavy, dark with anticipation as she watches him. Kurt steadies himself, his hands at her hips, at the owl and the rings engraved there, and he presses his lips in reverent worship to the tattoo at the center of her shoulder blades—his name—before guiding himself into her.

Jane braces against the countertop as Kurt begins to move, slowly at first, cautiously, because he's always, always careful with her. It isn't until she backs further into him, encouraging him to go faster without words that he begins to bare down on her, increasing the pace, the depth of each stroke of his hips reaching deeper until Jane can't help the soft, breathy cry that drifts from the back of her throat. Kurt leans over her, presses his mouth to the damp hair at the base of her neck, his hand reaching around her waist to cup her breasts, his tongue tracing the scar above the oil rigs fashioned just above his name.

Her whimper is a plea, and he can feel Jane nearing the end again, he can feel his own pleasure coil and knot in his stomach, and all the while she begs for that final release in the way she says his name—unrelenting, frantic, over and over and over.

When she she falls apart the second time, he does too, and he watches her reflection in the mirror, the soft oh her lips make when he comes inside her. Kurt presses his face into her neck, presses his lips to the curve at the juncture of her shoulder, gasping into her skin. Both their legs threaten to give out, both their visions swim, but Kurt pulls Jane to him as her body tries to collapse across the marble surface completely. He stands her upright, his arms firm and secure around her waist, holding her flush to his chest as she leans back and rests her full weight on him, and feverishly pressing his lips to the side of her head.

She shakes in his arms, he realizes not from exhaustion, but because she's laughing. She manages to spin languidly in his embrace, grinning madly, her eyes deliriously happy, and she kisses him squarely on the mouth, her hand grabbing his chin to hold him steady.

"That was…" Jane shakes her head, curls herself around him with her arms and laughs again, burying her face in his neck.

"The best make up sex ever?" Kurt offers, his smile wide, devious.

"Well, yes, though I can't remember if I have any past experience to compare it to…"

"Hey!"

Jane can't help but laugh again at the look on Kurt's face, and despite the fact that he's trying to pretend to be hurt, he can't help but smile at the sound of it, clear and full in the smallness of the room. She pushes him away with her hands, her heels clicking across the stone floor as she stoops to pick up her underwear and then her dress. She slips back into both of them, and Kurt is briefly wondered by the fact that she's able to walk at all, let alone in four inch heels. He's not sure moving is such a great idea right now, and he questions if it's whether he needs to build up his stamina, or if his age is finally catching up with him. Either thought makes him wince.

Jane spins, her dress barely hanging of her shoulders, and she tosses him his pants and his shirt with a smirk, before collecting his waistcoat and his jacket and folding them over her arm. He starts to put his wardrobe back together piece by piece, and with far less grace than Jane had executed. When she turns her back to him he zips her dress back up, slowly, past the double headed eagle, to where it stops just below the hexagon centered along her spine. He savors the moment, lets his fingers brush her skin, and notes the way she leans into his touch even now.

"They're going to wonder where we've been," Jane says as she washes her hands, and then starts to fix her disheveled waves in the mirror. Kurt can't help but picture her how he'd had her just minutes ago, spread out over the marble, and if he could have he would've taken her again right there.

"Let them wonder," Kurt shrugs, and Jane turns to him, eyeing his clothes, straightening his tie, before finally nodding in satisfaction.

"Do I look presentable?" Jane asks, eyeing her reflection in the mirror.

"You look utterly ravishing." Kurt stands behind her, one last time, his hands at her waist as he leans over her shoulder to press a kiss to the edge of her jaw.

"Mmm," Jane hums, leaning into him, "I can't imagine why."

They make it out of the bathroom fully clothed, back down he hallway and into the ballroom, without any incident or curious faces to see them. It's almost as if they were never gone, even though Kurt realizes it's been nearly half an hour. But Tash isn't anywhere to be seen, nor Reade or Mayfair or Patterson, and so with Jane on his arm they find a seat at the open bar. They shift close enough that their legs brush, and their arms, and Kurt orders himself a martini, and her a bourbon.

"I'll have to let you throw things at my head more often," Kurt says over the top of his drink, eyeing her wryly.

"I wouldn't suggest making it a habit," Jane cautions, smoothing her dress over her legs with a smirk.

Kurt chuckles, shrugging, but he makes no promises. He glances out at the still rather crowded dance floor, the cliques of politicians and government officials scattered around the room, wondering if Reade's managing to stay out of trouble, and if Patterson's had too much to drink yet.

That's when he spots her.

It's Tash, but it's not just Tash. It's also the woman standing next to her in a long black dress that catches his eye. A woman he recognizes. And by standing next to her, he means they're wrapped around each others waist, whispering in each other's ears, clearly having drank too much wine by the way they're holding each other up.

Jane follows his gaze, but when he turns to her, Kurt's surprised to see that she's not surprised at all. When she realizes that he is surprised, her eyes get a little wide, and her hand flies up to her mouth, trying to hide her grin behind it, but failing.

"You didn't know!" Jane exclaims, laughing. "You didn't know she was Tasha's date, did you?"

And by Tasha's date, Jane is referring to none other than Allison Knight.

AN: Soooooo this was another tumblr prompt. I love Tash, and I love her sass, and I love Jane and Kurt being at her mercy for it, and I love Jane and Kurt fighting, and then making up. I mean who doesn't like seeing them attend fancy events in fancy clothes (and then take them off)? ANYWAYS, thanks for reading lovelies. Lemme know what you think. x)