A/N: I feel like it's been a hundred years since I've posted anything new! This idea popped into my head while I was out the other night, and I just couldn't get rid of it. (For those of you that have read some of my other crossover fics, you'll recognize the OCs here.) Enjoy! ;)

Huddled around the monitors, they all watched in silence as Jane attempted to force her way through the dancing crowd. It wasn't going well. She was stopped at nearly every turn by a different sort of man. There were harmless ones and aggressive ones and every flavor in between, all fixated so closely on her that it was nearly impossible for her to move. Too many hands were reaching for her, touching her arms and her stomach and any part of her that was visibly bare and tattooed and therefore apparently up for grabs. Though he didn't like to admit it, Weller could understand why. She looked like an optical illusion in that place, her tattoos accentuated by the strobe lights and flashing colors and thumping music. Every person wanted to touch her to make sure she was real. The curiosity was too great to let her pass by.

Which was exactly the point.

They had spent a long time deciding whether or not to send her into the club covered up or not. In the end, they knew it would be better to send her in as she was: tattoos visible, mysterious, provocative. They needed to catch his eye, and nothing caught a man's eye like something entirely new.

Unfortunately, that astute calculation was backfiring. For Jane—and for the agents watching her.

"I can literally feel you fuming, Weller," Tasha muttered. "It's incredibly distracting."

"Distracting? You're worried about being distracted? She's been assaulted six times in the last ten minutes!"

Tasha snorted at his outrage, pushing closer to the monitors. "That's what being a woman is, Weller." Her dark eyes flicked over to him. "Nice of you to finally notice."

He opened his mouth to argue, but quickly shut it again, very aware of the fact that Tasha was on his left, Mayfair on his right, and Patterson was within earshot. He wouldn't be winning an argument like this surrounded by such spectators.

Instead, he turned his attention back to the live feed from the club. It took him a few minutes to find Jane again amidst all the pulsing lights and swaying bodies. As soon as he did, he regretted it. There was a guy dancing so close to her he was almost on top of her. Weller bit the inside of his cheek, resisting the urge to complain aloud again.

But then she started to walk away and the guy grabbed her ass and Weller couldn't have kept his mouth shut if he'd had a gun to his head.

"Are you fucking kidding me with this shit?"

Tasha stifled a laugh while Mayfair cleared her throat pointedly.

"Weller, I'd like to remind you that you are no longer integral to this mission. If you can't be professional, I'll have you removed from the room."

He clamped his mouth shut. He knew his boss's threat wasn't an empty one. She'd send him to sit out in the hall like he was acting up in fifth grade and he'd be powerless to stop her. It was true, after all, that they didn't need him here. All they'd needed him for was a quick confirmation of the identity of their suspect, and he'd already done that. He was worthless right now. And helpless.

Jane could take care of herself, obviously. She didn't need anyone protecting her—least of all him—but it still rankled to see her being treated like that, and worse, to watch her have to pretend like it didn't matter. Anything for the mission, he'd told her again and again and again. He was starting to wish he'd taught her a different motto.

Eventually, after what felt like hours, she made her way through the worst part of the throng and ended up on the other side.

They all leaned closer to the screen as she made her way towards the VIP alcoves. There were fewer cameras in this section of the club, for obvious reasons, and every couple minutes Jane disappeared from their view. But she didn't disappear entirely.

"What the hell is she doing?" Weller muttered to himself, glaring at the screens, where Jane could be seen loitering. "Why isn't she trying to catch his attention?"

"Maybe he's busy with someone else," Tasha offered.

It was a good point, Weller had to concede. Their target wasn't exactly known to be monogamous. There could very well be a line to get to him.

"She can't keep lingering like this," Mayfair muttered, tracing Jane with her eyes as she moved from screen to screen. "He'll notice her for the wrong reasons if she doesn't start making herself look busy."

"I told you you should've sent me in with her," Tasha said. "It would look less conspicuous if she had someone by her side."

Mayfair shook her head. "We couldn't risk you two looking like partners out there." Before Tasha could protest, she added, "I know you wouldn't have, Zapata, but Jane would've naturally looked to you for guidance in this sort of situation. She does better when she's put in the deep end on her own."

"That remains to be seen," Weller warned darkly, frowning at the monitors. Jane was still lingering, looking ever more awkward with each passing moment. When she wasn't busy staring around, she was tugging at the hem of her too-short skirt as if to magically lengthen it.

"I don't get why he's not making a pass at her," Tasha complained. "I slutted her up specifically for this! I went all out; she could practically go stand by the side of the street!"

"Zapata," Mayfair warned.

"What? It's true! Look at her, for god's sake. The rest of the place is crawling all over her. Why not him?"

"Maybe you got his type wrong," Weller put in dryly. "Wouldn't be the first time now, would it?"

Tasha snorted. "I highly doubt I got his type wrong, Weller."

"Oh, and why's that? You read his mind or something?"

Tasha smirked. "I didn't have to. I know what men like."

Weller knew better than to rise to Zapata's bait—especially in front of his boss—but something about her smug attitude rankled him. He couldn't just let it slide. He turned towards her.

"Oh, so we're all the same now, are we? We all like the exact same things when it comes to women?"

"You all like this exact same thing," Zapata replied smugly. "Honestly, I can't believe you haven't noticed yet," she added, smirking as she nodded towards the monitor. "Every man's a sucker for a woman who's not wearing any underwear."

Weller was thankful Mayfair was there to reprimand her, because he couldn't quite form words once Zapata's hit his ears. Surely she was bullshitting him. Surely. But if she wasn't…

He couldn't help himself from leaning a little closer to the monitors. Luckily, Mayfair was suddenly doing the same, albeit for an entirely different reason.

"Good girl," she whispered, watching Jane disappear from one screen and walk purposefully into another. "She's finally caught his eye."

The first thing Jane thought when she met the second-largest arms dealer in the country was that he didn't look very dangerous. In fact, he looked rather harmless, sitting there alone on that big couch, one hand in his pocket and the other holding a small tumbler of something amber colored. Jane wondered if it was bourbon.

The man didn't move to get up or shake her hand as she approached, and she wasn't exactly sure how she was supposed to play this. The team had been hazy on the details at this part; all Weller had kept saying was that she needed to get close to him and she needed to get him talking.

She put up a smile as she walked down the few steps into the sunken private area. It was a bit quieter here than out on the main floor; she was relieved to be able to hear her own thoughts again, and not to have to scream to be heard.

"May I join you?" she asked.

He lifted his drink in a toast. "By all means."

She kept her smile on her face as she took a seat to his left, not too close, but not too far away, either. A few inches and they'd be touching. Just get close to him, she could hear Weller coaching her in her head.

"So what brings you my way?"

"Oh, you know…" She looked over at him, finding that when she met his eyes, her smile didn't even feel fake anymore. He had been good-looking from afar, but he was incredibly handsome up close, with dark brown hair and a very full but nicely trimmed beard. She'd bet the dark suit he was wearing cost double her monthly rent. "What wouldn't bring me your way, Mr.…?"

The man smiled, and set down his drink so he could hold out his hand. "James," he offered.

She took it. He had a good shake, firm and confident. His hand was a little cool from the glass he'd been holding, and in this hot room, she didn't quite want to let go. "Jane," she told him.

"Nice to meet you, Jane."

"Nice to meet you, too."

"Can I get you a drink?"

She hesitated a half-second, unsure if drinking was mission-appropriate, but quickly nodded. She knew she'd stand out more if she wasn't drinking. "I'll have what you're having," she gestured at his glass, "if what you're having is bourbon."

"It's scotch, actually," he replied, and she wrinkled her nose reflexively when he offered her the glass to taste. She'd had enough of Weller's to know it wasn't her drink, but she was surprised it was this man's go-to choice as well. What was it with men and scotch?

"I'll get you a bourbon," he laughed, catching the eye of one of the servers lingering in the background. "Any particular preference?"

Jane shook her head no, too busy staring at the waiter. There was a second one back there, too, waiting. She hadn't noticed them before; they'd melted into the darkness of the corners as easily as assassins. She was suddenly very relieved she was only here to gather intelligence; if it came to a fight, she didn't want to imagine how many people this man had on his payroll, hiding just beyond sight, utterly capable of killing her and getting away with it.

A minute later the server returned, presenting her with a glass. He waited patiently by her side while she took a sip and nodded to deem it satisfactory, though truly it was far better than satisfactory. It was so good it made her wonder just how much one glass cost. It made her want to have ten more.

But she had better things to think about than alcohol.

She put on her most charming smile and tried to channel her inner Tasha.

"So. What is it you do, James?"

"I'm a businessman."

"Ah." She nodded, sipping her drink, waiting for him to elaborate. When he didn't, she prodded gently, "What sort of business are you in?"

"Import–export. Mostly electronics parts, in and out of East Asia."

"China?" she guessed, relieved she could contribute something to this conversation even if it was only one word, even if this whole conversation was a farce.

"China," he nodded. "Japan, too. Singapore. Korea."

"I imagine you've traveled to all these places."

He smiled. "I have in fact."

"So which is your favorite?"

"Well…" He blew out a breath, leaning back against the couch in deep thought, as if he'd just been asked to define the meaning of life. "That's a big question. Tell me, Jane—and be honest now—just how much time do you have to waste on me?"

Despite herself, she smiled. "I have time," she assured him. "Don't worry."

And so he launched into a travel guide of the eastern edge of Asia, occasionally diverting towards Europe and Africa, and she took in every word, every sentence, committing anything remotely incriminating to memory. She encouraged him to name dates, and she mentally attempted to place him in certain countries at certain times, hoping to line up with what sales they knew of. It wasn't easy—not only because there was so much information, but because he was such a good storyteller. More than once, she lost the thread of the lead she was supposed to be following and found herself, instead, simply listening to his outlandish tales from exotic places. He told so many and with such detail that she found herself believing each story he told as if they were true. They reminded her just how little of the world she'd seen, just how little of the world she knew firsthand.

"I wish I could go to those places. I haven't had time to travel in years," Jane admitted.

"Well, maybe I could take you some time. Wherever you want to go most, just say the word."

Jane smiled at the offer, though she knew he was saying it only to be polite, only to make conversation, only to hide the fact that whenever he traveled for work, people died.

"What about you?" he asked, studying her. "We've spent all this time talking about me, we haven't even gotten to you. What is it you do, Jane?"

"I'm a language tutor," she answered promptly, relieved that Weller and Tasha had forced her to go over her backstory so many times. It came easily now, as if it really were true. "I work with adults who want to expand their professional reach, so Mandarin is my most popular course right now. But I also teach Russian, Turkish, and English as a second language, of course." She paused, deciding she needed another flourish to personalize her story. Every lie worked better with a sprinkling of truth. "Right now, I'm being tutored myself, actually. I'm trying to learn Arabic."

"Ah." He smiled, holding up a finger. "That, I actually know a few words of."

"Really?" She leaned forward in interest, proud that her little improvisation might lead her somewhere. "What words do you know?"

"Not any polite ones," he confessed with a laugh, and she couldn't help but laugh too. This, finally, felt like an honest exchange.

"Maybe once I've gotten a little more fluent, you can teach me what you know. It's always helpful to have a few swears up your sleeves."

"It is indeed," he agreed with a smile, reaching for his drink.

She did the same, but was dismayed to find her glass nearly empty again. She finished it regardless and set it aside, vowing that it would be her last. She'd drank far too much already, and for too little reward. The had talked and talked and talked, and yet she knew she hadn't even punctured the surface of all that he kept hidden. Ten more nights like this and maybe, maybe, she's start to reach something tangible.

"So. Now that we have the pleasantries out of the way…"

He started to shift towards her, and she froze, suddenly unsure of what was happening. Was he going to kiss her? Touch her? No one had spelled out what she was supposed to do in this situation. Was she supposed to allow it? Allow him to do—whatever it was he wanted with her? Her gut said no—Weller wouldn't send her into this sort of situation—but then it wasn't his call, was it? This was Mayfair's case. This was one of the biggest cases their office had ever had.

And they'd sent her to close it.

It didn't matter why anymore. It didn't matter that Tasha played the role of seductress better, that Patterson was a wonder at getting people to open up, that Mayfair would never have lost her head as Jane had. All that mattered was that the man sitting next to her illegally sold millions of guns a year. He effectively killed hundreds of people across the globe every day, if not thousands. He was a one-man genocide and he was showing no signs of slowing down.

She'd do whatever had to be done to stop him.

So she met his eyes and she smiled at him and she shifted close enough so that their knees were touching. She watched as he looked down in surprise, and then back up at her, grinning now. He had a nice smile, she had to admit. Nice smile, nice hair, nice beard, nice face… She closed her eyes and tried to comfort herself with these facts, as irrational as they were. What did it matter what he looked like when he murdered people for profit?

She held her breath, trying not to think about that other reality, waiting to feel his lips on hers. She could sense him getting closer; she could nearly feel the heat he gave off. It would only be a second more before he kissed her, one second—

"Can I get you another drink, miss?"

Jane jumped at the voice, turning to see another server standing beside their table. This was a different one from before—female now, and blonde. She had a close-lipped smile on her face, and even though it was doubtless supposed to be polite, there was no kindness there, no friendliness. Jane wasn't surprised. She was a guest at this club and this place was hell; she could only imagine how exhausting it was to work here. It had to be past one AM by now; how much had this woman had to put up with since her shift started? There were too many drunk men here, too many dark corners to be trapped in them with. Head spinning, Jane found herself hoping the woman had taken a self-defense class or two. If not, at least she got to carry glassware, which made quite an effective weapon when smashed over someone's head.

"Another drink?" the woman pressed, and Jane nodded dumbly, watching as the woman scooped up her empty glass and turned away without another word. She was nearly to the stairs when James called out to her.

"Sweetheart!" He held up his glass. "I'm empty too, if you don't mind."

He smiled at the waitress as she turned around, but she didn't smile back. She walked the few feet back to their table and snatched the glass from his hand, stalking away without another word or a look back.

"Wow…" Jane watched the woman go, struggling to hold back a laugh at her obvious disdain. "That waitress really does not like us very much."

James grinned, watching her retreating form. "No, she does not. I wonder why…"

"Probably jealousy."

"Jealousy?" James turned to her with surprise. "And what is it she's jealous of, do you think?"

"What she interrupted between us."

James' smiled widened as he regarded her, mischief in his eyes now. "And what did she interrupt exactly?"

Jane smiled back; she understood the game now. She knew how to hit the right balance between coy and bold to keep him guessing, keep him interested. "I don't know, maybe you could tell me…"

He laughed, shifting in his seat to face her more fully. His left hand had left his pocket and his arm swung back to hug the curve of the couch behind her. His fingertips just barely ghosted her far shoulder, and Jane found herself wishing he would touch her more. She wanted an excuse to move closer to him.

"You know something?" he wondered aloud. "I like you, Jane. A lot more than I expected to."

"Than you expected to?" She raised her eyebrows. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well…" He trailed off with a guilty grimace, glancing away.

"Let me guess," she laughed. "The tattoos freaked you out."

"Oh, not at all." He shook his head. The fingertips of his left hand were drawing gentle circles against her bare shoulder now, tracing one of her tattoos. It felt good. "It wasn't the tattoos at all. I like them, actually."

He was quiet for a moment, simply staring at her, stroking her skin absentmindedly, and Jane found herself thinking that if he bent forward to kiss her just now, she wouldn't mind at all. Not one bit.

"So?" she heard herself ask, not knowing why she was interrupting the moment, "What was it, then? Why did you expect not to like me?"

"Well, your job, of course."

"My job?" She laughed. What was there to dislike about a tutor? They'd purposefully made her harmless. "What's wrong with my job?"

"Well, you know…"

He moved closer, and she couldn't help it, she moved closer too. Their faces were only inches away now. Their knees were touching again. He was staring at her and she found she couldn't look away, not even with all the distractions around them, all the noise and lights and her team watching from behind security cameras. Down in their little VIP alcove, she felt separated from all that, and all the more closer to him.

His arm had curled closer around her shoulder, and when he bent forward to whisper in her ear, she leaned forward too, placing her hand on his shoulder and closing her eyes to savor this moment before. She wasn't sure what he was going to say—maybe he was going to suggest a quieter bar, or even a hotel room—but she already knew what her answer would be. She'd go with him, and it wouldn't be for the mission. She was having trouble even remembering what the mission was, or why it was important. But that didn't matter anymore, she told herself. When was the last time she'd done something solely for herself, solely because she wanted to? Never. She'd done what the FBI told her to do and she hadn't argued and she was finally letting herself realize just how much she regretted it. She could have a normal life, if she tried. She could let men hit on her in bars and she could go home with them and she could regret nothing except maybe drinking a bit too much bourbon the night before.

She tightened her hold on James' shoulder, sliding her hand forward until her thumb grazed his neck. His skin was warm and smooth and she wanted to touch more of him, and have him touch more of her.

And then he spoke.

"So tell me, Jane." His breath was warm against her ear. "Are you ever going to stop bullshitting me?"

She froze at once, locked in place, her hand still on his shoulder, smile still on her face, eyes still shut. In the split-second that followed, she tried to convince herself it was a dream. Tried to tell herself she'd misheard. But when she pulled away and met his eye she knew there wasn't any mistake.

She tried her best to play it off anyway.

"Bullshitting you?" Somehow she managed to laugh. It wasn't exactly carefree, but it was close enough. "What have I been bullshitting you about?"

"Everything," James answered promptly. He was still smiling, calm and confident as ever, but she could sense another layer beneath that facade. Something darker. "You've been bullshitting me and I've been bullshitting you and it's all been very fun, but it's time to come clean now. I know why you're here."

Jane swallowed, doing her best to keep her expression clear. "Well, good. You should know why I'm here." She tried for what she hoped was an alluring smile, but all her muscles felt off. "I'm here because I want to be here. With you."

"No," he corrected firmly, "you're here because you were ordered to be here. And I allowed it because I was curious to see what you would do, how long you would attempt to string me along in the hopes that I'd let something slip."

Jane drew in a shallow breath, doing her best to try to think against the tide of panic threatening to engulf her. She wasn't drunk, but suddenly she felt drugged with fear; she wasn't sure anymore if she'd be able to stand, let alone run. She glanced over James' shoulder and saw one of the waiters still standing there in the corner, dark and still as a statue. She knew the other was still behind her, and she also knew she couldn't outrun them, not in this skirt, not in these heels, not in this place.

"You put on a good show, Jane, but I know a virgin when I see one."

His words shocked her back into herself. "Excuse me?"

"This is your first solo mission, isn't it? Tell me, is your boss listening in?" He leaned closer, towards her chest, towards the mic that was supposed to be completely invisible beneath her top. "Should I say hi, maybe introduce myself for the record? I have to admit, I don't fully understand how our conversation will amount to any kind of evidence…"

"I—I don't know what you're talking about," she stuttered, forcing herself up and away from him and onto her feet. "I—Excuse me—I really have to go to the bathroom."

"Aw, come on!" James called after her. "Don't run away like that! We were having so much fun, Jane!"

The moment she got to her feet she expected to be tackled, but no one grabbed her. She stumbled around the table and towards the stairs, moving quickly, expecting to hear footsteps coming after her. But no one followed her, not the waiters, not even James. When she chanced a look back, he was still sitting on the sofa, watching her go. When their eyes met for a split-second, he held up his hand in a friendly wave and smiled.

She swung around, starting up the stairs just in time to crash into the waitress who was returning with their drinks. The tray she was carrying went flying and both the drinks upended themselves—all over Jane's front. Five minutes ago, it would've been a disaster and ruined her whole night; now, it was a godsend. She didn't even wait to hear the waitress apologize before she made a beeline for the bathroom.

There was a line, but she shoved past it and, thanks to her soaked clothes, no one stopped her. All the perfectly made-up women edged away from her and her too-many tattoos and her soaking-wet clothes and in seconds, she had an open stall all to herself. She slammed the door shut, collapsing onto the toilet and doing her best to control her breathing and level out her swimming head.

It wasn't easy. With each second that passed, she kept expecting someone to break down the door to her stall, to shoot her in the head or cart her off to be tortured. She knew a man like James didn't tolerate others poking their noses into his business; she'd heard the stories of what he'd done to former business partners. Those were people he had been friends with, people he had willingly done business with. What would he do to a cop trespassing on his turf?

Jane shut her eyes, thinking of Mayfair. If James didn't kill her, Mayfair certainly would. She had been following this man's trail for years, trying to track him down, trying to match a face to all that death, all that blood money, and now that she finally had, Jane had gone and ruined it—all the while acting like a simpering idiot for all her coworkers to see.

Jane drove her fists into her temples, willing away the humiliation rising in her. She felt like she might throw up, and for a few seconds, her stomach heaved, but thankfully nothing came out. She swallowed hard—swallowed down the bile and the shame and the fear.

When her heart managed to return to a manageable pace, she remembered once more that she'd been doused in alcohol. She checked her mic reflexively—she almost found herself hoping it was dead—but there, that tiny little red light at the bottom told her it was still recording and transmitting. She blew out a defeated breath, knowing that even though her mic was still viable, there was no point in continuing. James had already made her. The only acceptable course of action now was a hasty retreat—a mad dash to the door, and a prayer that they wouldn't grab her before she tasted fresh air.

Aw, come on! Don't run away like that, James had called after her.

Finish the mission, Weller coached in her head.

Shut up, she wanted to yell at both of them, but only because she knew they were right. She was better than this, better than someone who ran away and hid and hoped everything would be fixed in her absence. She fixed things herself, had been doing so for months. Why should tonight be any different?

The game was up, sure, but that didn't mean all was lost. So he knew she was planted, what did that matter? He was obviously interested in her and obviously single. She could leverage that unattachment to her advantage. Besides, by toying with her, he had already shown himself to be the type who liked to play with fire. Maybe she could convince him to move a little closer to the flame.

The women in the bathroom offered her apologetic smiles when she walked out of the stall; one of them went so far as to loan her some perfume to try and mask the smell of alcohol that had soaked into her clothes and skin. It didn't mask much but then again, Jane hadn't expected a miracle in the first place. The fact that she was still alive was a miracle in and of itself. Hell, why not push for more?

She made her way quickly back through the club towards the VIP area, keeping an eye out for anyone who might want to stop her, all the while moving as fast as she could. She had to get back to James, had to play another card, had to prove she wasn't as easy a mark as she appeared. Not just for her own survival, but for her own dignity. She couldn't go back to Mayfair with nothing. And she couldn't let James think he'd beaten her so easily.

When she made it back to the little alcove she'd fled minutes ago, she thought at first it was the wrong one. She saw a couple together, bent too closely to one another to be anything but lovers or soon-to-be lovers, and Jane was about to back away before the man threw his head back, laughing at something the woman had said, and Jane realized she recognized him. She recognized both of them.

It took her brain a moment to process what she was seeing.

There was James, sitting where she'd left him, but at his side was the waitress from before, the blonde one Jane had run straight into in her desperation to flee. He had his arm wrapped around the waitress, his hand resting far too low on her hip to be decent, and the first thought that went through Jane's mind was that she couldn't believe he'd moved on that fast. Of course she'd heard stories about his promiscuous habits—in fact she'd been relying on their veracity in order to get close to him tonight—but this was another level. She'd been gone, what, four minutes? And he was already halfway into bed with someone else? It took her a few simmering seconds before she realized why her face was so hot, why her heart was beating so fast, why she was so unsteady on her feet suddenly. She wasn't scared; she wasn't drunk.

She was insulted.

Betrayed, almost, though of course in her rational mind she knew that feeling made no sense. What did she have to feel betrayed about? She'd been trying to play him as much as he'd been trying to play her. But still, there had been something about his attention, his interest, the way he had made her feel...

"Ah!" James noticed her finally, his eyes brightening as he turned away from the waitress to face her. Jane noticed that his hand didn't leave the other woman's ass. "You came back after all! Good on you, Jane. I'm impressed. Actually, I'm pleased."

"Pleased?" she repeated flatly. She was wondering if she could get away with smacking him.

He smiled at her as if he could sense her thoughts. "Of course. I want to introduce you to someone." He gestured to the blonde waitress at his side. "Jane, this is my wife, Gwen. Gwennie, Jane."

"Hello." The blonde woman lifted her hand in a brief wave, and it was only when she dropped it back to her lap that Jane saw the enormous diamond ring on her finger, complemented by the equally extravagant diamond wedding band beside it.

Befuddled, all Jane could manage to think at first was, He married a cocktail waitress. One of the richest and most dangerous men in the country, in the world—a man who could have anything and likely anyone he wanted—had married a cocktail waitress.

It took a few more seconds for her brain to catch up, for her mind to make the connection that that woman—Gwen, if that was actually her name—was not a cocktail waitress. Jane didn't have the first idea what she was, but it hardly mattered, because how in the world had this happened?

All the earlier insult and betrayal and anger that had been roiling in her a moment ago evaporated as she looked automatically to James' hand and saw a wedding ring there as well. She felt a flood of confusion—had he been wearing that ring before? How had she not noticed?

"Is this a joke?" was all she could manage to get out.

James smiled. "Does it look like a joke?"

"It…" Jane didn't know what to say. She didn't know what to think. "It doesn't make any sense," she whispered, her mind turning to no avail. "You… We were…" She trailed off, speechless.

"See?" the waitress—Gwen—complained, rapping her knuckles against James' chest in light admonishment. "What did I say, hm? I told you you were laying it on too thick. You were too much of a whore."

"I was not," he argued. He swung his head around to their guest. "Jane, was I too much of a whore? Be honest now. Don't tell me you thought our little game was going anywhere."

"I…" Jane shook her head, trying to clear it, trying to find words. None came to her.

"God, look what you've done to the girl," Gwen muttered. "She can't even speak, James."

"That's not my fault! They sent a yearling in after me. What was I supposed to do?"

"Treat her accordingly," his wife replied. "That means an hour, tops. Teach her a few lessons and send her on her way. That's the drill and you know it. Instead you just had to make a spectacle, like always—"

"Aw, come on, I was having fun, Gwennie! You know I don't get to spar with feds often. I haven't seen a new face in ages; all I ever get are the same suits—"

"—and you should send those suits to me," she finished matter-of-factly.

"No." He shook his head firmly. "No, you get too handsy. It's scary—for them and for me."

"Oh, and you weren't getting handsy?"

They continued to bicker, but Jane listened with only half an ear, slowly letting things slide into place in her mind. Certain things made sense now. Mayfair sending her in alone and untrained—she chose an angle and it had worked. Tasha dressing her up in the skimpiest and most close-fitting outfit she could find only added to the effect. And Weller being so vague on details and so reticent to give her pointers? She expected a lot from him, but she didn't expect him to give her tips on how to seduce strange, dangerous men. She didn't know how she'd been so blind as to not put the pieces together earlier, but she'd been far too excited and far too nervous going out into the field on her own for the first time to think too deeply about anyone's motives. She'd thought about her suspect and her chance to right wrongs and that was it.

And now here that unrighted wrong was, curled up with his wife, making fun of her.

He was making fun of her.

"You're an asshole."

Her insult cut through their bickering, and for a split-second it was silent as they both stared at her, unblinking. And then they both burst out laughing.

"She's got you there," Gwen snickered, ducking closer to him, her hand in his hair.

"Yeah, you're not wrong," James agreed, smiling at Jane.

She didn't smile back.

"Aw, come on," he sighed tiredly. "Enough with the sour grapes. What do you want me to say? I'd apologize for leading you on, but you really only have yourself to blame there."

"How do you figure that?"

"Well, it was your job to seduce me, right? Not the other way around. And so it's not my fault you're bad at your job."

Jane felt her cheeks heat. "You didn't seduce me," she snapped, hating the way the two of them rolled their eyes in unison. They really must be married, she thought, feeling her resentment intensify. "You didn't," she insisted, knowing she sounded petulant, knowing it hurt her case, but unable to hold her tongue. "I was gathering information, as instructed, and—"

"Yes, speaking of that," James interrupted, "I've been wondering all night: since when did it become standard protocol for the feds to whore out their pretty young agents?"

Jane felt her face burn again. "I wasn't being—"

"And besides," he continued over her, "what was the game plan supposed to be, anyway? Even if I had been single, what do you think would have happened? In your best-case scenario… What? I would've taken you into some back room to fuck you, all the while spilling trade secrets? Come on." He turned to his wife, forehead wrinkled in concern. "I'm not that easy, am I, dear?"

She shrugged delicately. "In her defense, I did get quite a few trade secrets out of you in London using a similar method…"

James scowled at her, but she merely smiled at him, and then turned back to Jane.

"You did an all right job, I suppose," Gwen allowed, and something told Jane she was being very gracious with her almost-praise. "But you were too calculating. We spotted you from a mile away. Your agenda was written all over your face."

A thought turned in Jane's head.

"Were you watching the whole time?" she wondered. She remembered the way the woman had barged into their little area, interrupting what Jane had—apparently foolishly—believed was going to be a kiss. But would it have been, had Gwen not seen enough and finally interrupted?

"Do you allow this often?" she wondered, her eyes zeroing in on the blonde. "He's your husband and you just… let him hit on strange women right in front of you?"

The blonde woman smiled slowly, her eyes on Jane's. "Why?" she asked. "Do you pity me?"

Jane opened her mouth to say Yes, but the word caught in her throat. There was something in that woman's eyes, in her face—something that told Jane she was not one to be pitied, and moreover, she was nothing like what she appeared to be. If she really was this man's wife, and if this man really was who they thought he was… She had to be just as dangerous as him, if not more so. She was not one to be used, and certainly not one to be pitied.

"I don't know how to feel about you," Jane answered finally, and the woman's smile widened.

"I could say the same about you."

Despite herself, Jane felt a smile flicker on her lips as well. She couldn't help herself; she was as powerless to deny interest in this woman as she had been with her husband, and equally unable to turn down praise from either. She knew they were bad people—dangerous and evil and heartless—and yet… She wanted to stand in their presence a little longer, if only to understand a little bit more about what made them tick.

But of course that would not be allowed.

She sensed the presence at her back the way she might feel a breeze: invisible, untouchable, but instantly recognizable. She turned away from the couple to meet the man's eyes. She recognized him as one of the servers that had been loitering in the corner earlier; she tried to discern if he was on the club's payroll or James', but it was impossible to tell. He simply stood beside her, a huge hulking presence, and waited for the order for how he should deal with her.

"That's it?" Jane asked, feeling a spike of bravery—or perhaps just stupidity—as she turned back to the couple.

James shrugged. "It's getting late. I'd like to actually enjoy my evening with my wife before it's over. If you don't mind."

Though his voice was mild, the mere presence of the man behind her told Jane all she needed to know about James' seriousness. And yet she couldn't hold back.

"I just wanted to ask—"

She started to step forward, and immediately a hand clamped over her wrist, holding her in place. She jerked back at the unexpected contact, but neither James nor Gwen so much as blinked. It made her wonder what sort of atrocities they'd witnessed together, brought about by their own orders. Jane took a breath, forcing calm.

"I—I just have a few questions, is all."

"A few?" James raised his eyebrows. "I wasn't aware I was under any obligation to answer any questions from feds."

"You're not," she answered quickly, very aware that the hand on her wrist could break it at any moment. "You don't have to answer anything. But—" She tried for a smile, tried for hope. "We've lied to each other enough, right? I just have a few questions, if you feel like being honest for a change. Just—just two."

"Two?"

Jane nodded, and watched anxiously as James glanced at his wife. Gwen shrugged, as if to say, Who cares?

"Fine," he replied. "Two questions. That's it. Then you're out the front door."

Jane nodded quickly; those were more than generous terms.

"Well? What are your questions?"

Jane knew she was supposed to ask things about the mission. She knew she should attempt to confirm part of his backstory, or maybe his financial holdings, or perhaps his business associates… But there were really only two things she truly wanted to know.

She looked to Gwen.

"Did you spill those drinks on me on purpose?"

Gwen cracked a smile, then a laugh. She held up a hand as if swearing on a bible. "Honest mistake, I swear. You ran straight into me, and as you can imagine, I'm not accustomed to being a waitress. This was my first shift."

"Still…" Jane bit the inside of her lip. She didn't know why she was pushing this, but she just had to know. "After what you saw, I'd understand if you were—"

"Jealous?" Gwen smiled wide, showing rows of perfect teeth behind her perfect lipstick. "Don't take this the wrong way, miss, but I don't see you as anything even resembling a threat to my marriage. Besides, dousing you in bourbon?" She shook her head. "What do you think I was going to do next, light you on fire? Please. I'm nowhere near that level of batshit possessive when it comes to him."

Out of the corner of her eye, Jane caught James' gaze just in time to see him mouth Yes, she is.

Without missing a beat or even looking in his direction, Gwen smacked him in the chest. James winced, feigning—or likely not feigning—hurt. Gwen ignored his swear of pain and addressed Jane.

"You have a second question, I believe?"

"Yes." Jane swallowed. She thought she had been on dangerous ground before, but this next query would send her out over the edge of the cliff. Yet she had to ask.

"Why aren't you having me killed?"

James smiled. "Have you heard of the phrase 'Don't shoot the messenger'?"

"Yes, but—"

Gwen raised an eyebrow. "Are you really arguing for the merits of your execution?"

"No," Jane answered quickly. "I'm just trying to understand. I don't see how keeping me alive benefits you. Especially—" She knew she should stop speaking but she couldn't. She had to know. "—especially when I know so much more about both of you. I mean—" She addressed Gwen. "I know that you exist now. I know that you two are married; I know you have business in the city; I know you've been messing with the cops; I know—"

She broke off when James held up a hand to silence her.

She pressed her lips together, trying not to panic that she'd said too much. Trying to brace herself to run—and to be stopped.

But James merely smiled, first at her, then at his wife. He took her hand and as Jane watched their fingers intertwine, she wondered just how many people they'd killed together.

"Jane, tell me. Do you really think you learned anything today that we didn't want you to learn?"

Jane swallowed, forcing away the fear. She could still feel that guard's hand tight around her wrist. She knew she had to choose her words carefully now, more carefully than she ever had before.

"I know you're smart," she told the couple. "I know you've gone out of your way to cover your bases, to keep an eye out for people like me, to use us…" She drew in a breath. "But you should know that people like you don't get away with these sorts of things forever. Either you're going to get caught by someone like me, or you're going to get killed by someone like you." Her eyes moved between the two, sliding over Gwen's perfect face before returning to James'. "I imagine they'll kill her first. Slowly. Might make you watch. Or maybe only listen, and imagine." The hand around her wrist tightened to the point of bruising, but she simply shrugged. "That's how I would do it, at least. Given the chance."

"Is that a threat?"

James wasn't smiling anymore, and Jane took some comfort in that. It meant he was taking her seriously for once.

It also meant he might change his mind about killing her.

"It's not a threat," Jane told him. Her voice was calm somehow, much calmer than she felt. "How could it be a threat? I'm at your mercy here."

"Yes, and you're stupidly choosing to test that mercy." He sat back against the couch, studying her. "I can't quite tell why."

Jane started to open her mouth, but Gwen spoke first.

"Isn't it obvious? She's trying to save face for earlier by getting into a dick-measuring contest with you."

James smirked, his eyes still on Jane. "Something tells me I'll win that contest."

"I wouldn't be so sure," Gwen muttered under her breath.

James frowned at her. "Can't you at least be on my side this once? If only where my penis is concerned? Christ. I ask so little of you, Gwennie."

"You ask far too much, actually," his wife replied. And then, turning back to Jane, she continued: "Your bravery is noted. As is your stupidity. Now run along before I change my mind about killing you."

"It's your decision, is it?"

"Considering I'm the only one here who's armed…" Gwen lifted a hand to her chest, her fingers slipping beneath the fabric of her dress and between her breasts for a moment. Jane stared in furrowed confusion, not knowing what she was watching until Gwen withdrew her hand—and a knife.

Jane took an immediate step back, her eyes zeroing in on the weapon. It was small, yes; it was thin, yes. But it was also horrifically razor sharp, and Jane knew just by looking at it that Gwen had handled it many, many times before.

"Yes, I am letting you live," she told Jane. "On the express condition that you and the rest of your little friends stay away from my husband and myself. If we ever see you again, you won't be given a chance to ask any more questions. Is that understood?"

Jane nodded dumbly, her mouth suddenly too dry to speak.

"Good. Now run along, please. You've stolen enough of our time tonight."

The hand on Jane's wrist tightened once more, and this time, she didn't resist its pull. She let it lead her away, back up the few steps to the main club floor, across the venue, and out into the night. It wasn't until she was on the sidewalk that the hand finally let go of her.

She tensed, waiting for the shot that would kill her, but it never came.

Weller was waiting for her on the steps of the Federal Building when she finally made it back. He looked as exhausted as she felt, and Jane knew without having to ask that he'd taken the brunt of Mayfair's screaming in her absence. She also knew there would be plenty more screaming waiting for her once she managed to drag herself up to the twelfth floor.

Bearing this in mind, she took the stairs slowly to the top, coming to a stop beside where Weller was sitting. He had a beer in one hand and she was just about to ask why when he handed her the plastic bag that had been resting by his side. She took it warily, watching his silent face. She could see a pair of jeans and a tank top inside—the outfit she'd been wearing at the Bureau earlier in the day. He answered her question without having to hear it asked.

"Thought you might want to be wearing something halfway decent when you go up to speak with the deputy director."

"Thoughtful," Jane muttered. Though she'd felt a brief flash of gratitude, it was buried almost immediately by an avalanche of humiliation as she remembered all he'd have to have heard on the mic, maybe even seen on the security cameras. Mayfair witnessing her ineptitude was bad enough, but at least she didn't have to face the big boss every day like she did Weller.

"On a scale of one to ten," she began, "how bad do you think I—"

"Don't make me pick a number, Jane."

"Why not?"

He sighed, took a draw on his beer. Eventually he looked up at her. "There's not a number high enough to match just how royally you fucked up."

She blew out a loud breath, face hot again, fury mixing with the humiliation now as she turned away from him to look out at the city. She opened her mouth to argue, to stick up for herself, to state her case—but what was there to say?

She'd done a bad job. She'd done a dangerously bad job—dangerous to herself, and dangerous to whoever would be forced to go after those two next. She was lucky enough to have gotten out with her life, she knew that, but even that wasn't a victory. Now she had to live with the fact that she'd been played. Now she had to keep an eye out over her shoulder. Now she had to keep going back to work with the knowledge that she wasn't even close to good enough to do the job she'd been so graciously given.

She dropped down and took a seat next to Weller, her bag of clothes between them. It was quiet for a few seconds while they both stared out into the night. Then the neck of a bottle moved into her line of vision. She glanced over and he nodded, offering a half smile.

"Something tells me you need it more than me."

She took the beer without a word, swallowing hard and deep, willing it to be stronger than its paltry 4%. She took another swallow, and then, noticing she was about to finish it off, passed it back to him before she could.

She blew out another heavy sigh, and bent forward to stretch her back. Then she turned to the plastic bag, rummaging around.

"You didn't happen to pack any air freshener, did you? I smell like a distillery. Somehow I don't think it's going to help my case up there."

"Not much is going to help your case up there," Weller commented around the rim of the bottle.

Jane made a face at him, but didn't bother with a retort. She knew he was right. And she also knew there was no point in putting off the inevitable. With a little prayer, she pushed herself up from the concrete step and got to her feet.

Weller looked over his shoulder when he saw she'd left the bag behind.

"You're not gonna change?"

She shrugged, already at the door. "Like you said, not much is going to help my case up there. I'm sure she's hellbent on firing me. What's the point in trying to change her mind?"

She pushed open the door, and though she let it slam shut behind her, she still heard his parting words.

"Thought I taught you better than to give up so easy."

It was nearly four AM when Jane finally made it back down to the lobby of the Federal Building. She gave a weary nod to the night guard, who was kind enough to wish her a good evening without commenting on the hour, her state of dress, her stench, or her obvious exhaustion. It was a kind end to an awful night, and she carried it with her as she pushed open the front door and stepped back outside.

She was just realizing she was going to have trouble finding a cab in this area at this hour when she saw Weller was still camped out on the steps. For a second she thought about walking back into the building and hiding until both he and Mayfair left. He was the last person she wanted to talk to after the deputy director's dressing-down.

But then again, the last time she'd been down here, he'd had alcohol, and there wasn't one thing in this world she wanted more at this moment than a drink.

She sat down next to him without a word. For a moment, he did the same.

Then he spoke.

"Thought she'd keep you longer."

"I was in there for over two hours," Jane snapped. "What did you want her to do, keep me until dawn?"

"It's not about wants, it's about expectations. I thought she'd make an example out of you."

"Oh, trust me." Jane laughed hollowly. "She's going to."

Weller glanced at her. "You wanna talk about it?"

After a second's thought, Jane shook her head. "No," she answered truthfully. "I really don't want to talk about it. I'm sure you'll find out Monday, anyway."

"I'm sure I will," Weller conceded. He stared into the night a moment longer. Then he got to his feet. Jane noticed the beer bottles that were next to him were all empty, and she felt her heart sink a little. This night was turning out to be an endless series of disappointments.

"Well," he said, picking up his recyclables. "Looks like it's time for a refill. I don't know about you, but I haven't had anywhere near enough alcohol tonight."

Jane smiled a little, reaching for her bag of clothes. "Is that an invitation?" she ventured.

He shrugged, lumbering down the steps. "You tell me. I've gotten yelled at plenty, but I still haven't heard any good war stories tonight."

"Oh yeah?" she asked, following after him. "Anything in particular you want to hear?"

"Let's start with why you're not dead. That one's still puzzling me."

"You and me both."

A/N: Thanks so much for reading! This story started as a tiny little crackfic and then it ended up being 24 pages long. If you got to the end, bravo! Hope you liked it. Leave me a review with some thoughts. :)