A/N: For those of you who haven't seen the deleted scene from "Authentic Flirt," Jane is shown at her apartment drawing a really nice picture of Kurt in her notebook, alongside sketches of her tattoos.

They make her sit, and wait, while they go through her apartment. She isn't allowed to leave interrogation, and Fischer tells her before he goes that she probably shouldn't even bother getting up out of her chair to stretch. The search won't take long, he says, and smiles—that annoying smile that she can sense but can't see because that mustache of his hides everything. He's a snake, she thinks, watching him go, doing her best not to look scared or furious, because she knows he'll review the footage once he gets back from looting her home.

Once he leaves, she tries to think of what he will find. She tries to do it calmly and coolly, but her mind is racing, because she knows he will find incriminating evidence—the phone Oscar gave her, the one he contacts her with for their midnight meetings, is there in her apartment. It isn't in plain sight, and she did her best to hide it in a false back of one of the kitchen drawers that she made, but she knows Fischer will find it. He said he was taking a team to her house, to tear it apart. Floor to ceiling. Wall to wall. I'll find whatever it is you're hiding, he'd said.

And he would.

And she'd be made the mole.

Because how else could she explain a pre-paid phone, hidden in a false back to one of her kitchen drawers? How else could she explain the lack of contacts on it, and all the late-night calls and texts from an unknown number? How else could she explain knowing Russian, and not having a memory, and being able to kill people with her bare hands?

I'm the mole.

Jane shuts her eyes, forcing the inevitable away. She doesn't want to think about being charged, being arrested, being taken away from the team and Kurt and the only people and places she's ever trusted...

Oscar could probably break her out of jail, she thinks. But something about the beady look in Fischer's dark eyes, something in the slipperiness of his smile beneath his mustache, tells Jane that he can't be much better than Carter. What if he doesn't take her to jail? What if he finds his own deep, dark hole to throw her into? Oscar saved her from that once, but can he really do it again?

She's still wondering, doing her best to keep her heart rate steady underneath the monitors (as if that's possible), when Fischer comes back in. Whistling.

She feels her heart push against her ribs at the sound of him, the sight of him. His smile is so wide when he sits down in front of her that she can actually see it; it isn't hidden by his mustache anymore, and it is taking over his face. It terrifies her.

But instead of showing her fear, she just stares at him. As he takes his seat and meets her eyes, she stares across the table at him, refusing to look scared, refusing to look guilty. A few seconds pass before he speaks.

"You've been lying to me, Ms. Shaw."

Jane swallows, not knowing anymore what's the most frightening—that he knows, that he's looking at her with unconcealed mirth, or that he's calling her by Tayor's name again. That name has been making her uneasy ever since he made her state it at the beginning of the interrogation earlier. It made her feel like a liar, a fraud, from the very first question.

She thinks now that that was the point. She hasn't answered a question calmly since he corrected her that first time. She's been rattled.

"What—" Jane has to clear her throat so she can speak through the rising fear. "What do you think I'm lying about?"

"Many things, clearly," Fischer answers pleasantly, wide smile still in full view. "But there's one thing in particular..." He reaches a hand into the inner pocket of his suit jacket, but hesitates before he pulls out whatever it is. Jane can see it already, though; she can almost feel the weight of the burner phone in his hand. "Before I show you the evidence that I have, however, is there any part of your previous statement that you'd like to revise?"

Just tell him, her brain coaches. You can lie your way out of this. Just say the calls are from a stranger, or a telemarketer. Say you don't know whose phone it is—No, say it was in the house when you got there. Say you've never seen it before; say you found it while you were cleaning one day. Just tell him—

"There's nothing that I'd like to revise," Jane says, and she surprises even herself with how calm she sounds. But she supposes everyone gets calm, at some point, when facing death.

"Really?" Fischer is still grinning, and it is maddening, to see him so happy. She wants to punch him in the face, and she would, if there weren't cameras on her. "There nothing at all that you'd like to change about your previous statement? No information that you'd like to divulge about your life?"

"No," Jane repeats, her voice firmer now, simply because she wants to prove him wrong. Even if he has the phone, well, she can explain it away! She'll have to. It's the only way to survive.

He stares at her for a few seconds longer, waiting and taunting and savoring the moment, before he finally closes his hand over what's in his pocket and brings it out.

She blinks at the sight of her black sketchbook in his hands.

She stares at it, wondering why in the world he brought in this to show her, when he should have the phone. He should have a call log.

But then he opens the sketckbook to a page flagged with a bright red "Evidence" sticker, and she feels her stomach drop in her body when he lays the book flat on the table. Her eyes are drawn to the page immediately, even though she knows how damning it is.

"So... if you weren't lying to me earlier when you said you'd never had romantic relations with any of your coworkers, then will you please explain away this very carefully crafted drawing of Special Agent Weller that I found hidden away in your apartment?"

Jane swallows hard, feeling her throat constrict as she looks at the drawing of Kurt, penciled in at the corner of one of the middle pages of her sketchbook, amidst the reproductions of all her tattoos. She remembers when she first started drawing it, a few days after she met him. The nights in the safe house were too quiet, too lonely, and drawing had helped. But she'd gotten bored of drawing her tattoos; she'd gotten sick from trying to decode them, trying to make some sense out of them.

Drawing him had been a relief, a balm. It had calmed her mind and eased her headaches and made her feel, for just a couple hours, like she wasn't totally alone in the world. Even after she'd finished the drawing, she'd still gone back over it every day or so, darkening some lines, smoothing others. Adding definition to his hair and his eyes and the firm set of his lips.

She remembers looking at it, tracing back over it mindlessly, the morning before she and Kurt had gone undercover as those Bulgarian hitmen. She remembers coming back to it that night, after Kurt and all the others had left her housewarming party. She'd just stared at the drawing that night, as she has every night for the past few days, wishing things were different, easier. Happier.

"The drawing's done in pencil, in pen... You've traced over it multiple times, from what I can tell, Ms. Shaw. Clearly you put effort into it, lingered over the details... I mean, just about every hair on his head is drawn here. Now, I haven't had time to peruse the rest of this journal in full, but I can imagine what I'll find: Taylor Weller, scrawled over and over again with hearts? Or do you prefer Jane Weller?" Fischer tilted his head to the side. "Which does he prefer? What does he call you when you're alone?"

Jane can feel her face heat. "I... I don't see how these questions are appropriate."

Fischer smiled thinly beneath his mustache. "I'm surprised you even know what the word 'appropriate' means, Ms. Shaw, after your behavior." He taps the sketchbook. "Do you really expect me to believe, as you earlier stated, that you're not currently and never have been in a romantic relationship with Special Agent Weller?"

"I'm not," Jane shoots back, ignoring the twinge of pain the honest words send through her when she says them. "I'm just… I'm around him every day," she mutters, searching for a plausible explanation for the drawing as she feels her face flame further. She finally manages to lift her eyes from the sketchbook, but what she's faced with when she looks up is worse: Fischer staring at her, smiling, waiting expectantly for her lies. Because he knows they will be lies. "I was just bored," she whispers. "So I drew him."

"Ah, you were bored. Of course." Fischer makes a mockery of nodding along. "You were bored, and so to pass the time, you drew your coworker, with whom you spend a majority of your day?"

There is a teasing lilt in Fischer's voice; he's laying a trap, and yet, she can't lie, not now.

"Yes."

Fischer nods again, shifting in his seat a bit as if contemplating this. "All right. That story I could believe." He pauses long enough so that Jane almost lets out her breath of relief, before— "And I would believe it, save for the fact that Special Agent Weller is the only coworker of yours that you've taken the time to draw. Painstakingly." He picks up the sketchbook, and flips through the pages, so they can both see. "There are no depictions of Agent Reade here, or Agents Zapata or Patterson. There are no drawings of Dr. Borden or Assistant Director Mayfair, or your erstwhile security detail, whom I'm sure you spent plenty of time around, too. From what I can see, there aren't any other drawings of people in this journal, in fact, except this single drawing of Special Agent Weller." Fischer sets the book back down flat, open to the drawing of Kurt's face, and shoves it towards her across the table. "Now, I'll ask you again: Would you like to revise your previous statement?"

Why? Jane thinks, glaring at him, refusing to look down at the notebook again. So you can brand me a liar and throw me in a shallow grave?

"I'm giving you a chance here, Ms. Shaw, to come clean. We both know you're lying. Just tell me the truth—that you've been having an undocumented and unapproved romantic relationship with your direct superior, and that you've been using it to your advantage. You've been using it, using him, to sell government secrets, and pass along information, and get people killed—"

"I didn't kill anyone!" Jane cuts in, unconsciously feeling her hands clench into fists. "The Russians, I'm not a part of that! I had nothing to do with Olivia's death, or David's, or anyone's—"

"But you did sell government secrets, didn't you? You used your boss-slash-boyfriend for what incredibly high access he has because, let's face it, you have less access here at the FBI than most children do on take-your-kid-to-work day."

"I didn't—"

"I mean, it's smart, it is. Just like the Russians, you found your target, molded yourself to what you knew he'd want, and embedded yourself in his life, in his bed. He wouldn't suspect you—Oh, no, not the lost little girl come back home, never! You had a great angle. And it worked for a while, of course, for a few months, but just like those other spies, you went native. Maybe the sex was really good, maybe you liked the way he smiled—" Fischer laughs. "—I don't care! But bottom line is, you got sloppy, just like the others, and now you're paying for it."

"I didn't—We've never slept together," Jane bites out. "And I'm not using him."

"Oh?" Fischer laughs a little. "Really? What are you doing with him, then?" He taps the notebook. "What's this drawing all about, then? Please explain; I would love to hear your side of things."

"The drawing's nothing. I drew it before we even—"

When Jane breaks off, realizing she's already said too much, Fischer leans close over the table. "Before you even what?"

Jane swallows quickly, looking away. She doesn't care how guilty she looks right now, avoiding his eye, she needs to gather herself, and make a game plan, and she can't do it with that man's little eyes on her, greedy to lock her up. She can't imagine Kurt told him, or anyone, about that kiss. She doesn't want to tell him, or anymore. Not with what's happened since, but...

She turns back to Fischer and sees the hunger there, to nail her to this crime, and she knows that even if she tells him the truth about the drawing, he will not buy it. He will not buy that she drew Kurt simply because she'd been fixated on him, curious about him, in the days after they'd met. He will not understand the pull that she felt for Kurt when they met, the need to remember, to make him familiar. He will not believe that she drew him to understand him, and herself, and whatever past they might've had together. Or future.

Jane closes her eyes at that thought, at the idea of a future for them together that will likely only ever be that: an idea, and not a reality, given her actions and her choices. She thinks of that loss, and even as she's mourning it, she knows it's her way out. It's her only way out, given the determination Fischer's exuded thus far. I'm not using him, she'd said before—well, she's certainly using him now, if she hadn't been already. But she hopes Kurt will understand this, as much as she hopes he'll one day understand why she's been pushing him away since the kiss, since Oscar showed up, since she found out she'd planned all this herself and probably hand-picked Kurt for the very reasons Fischer just outlined.

Lost little girl come back home. You had a great angle.

She takes a second, steadies herself, and quietly prays that Kurt will one day forgive her for this. Or if not, that one day he'll at least get to know the truth.

Fischer is waiting expectantly, eyes bright, when she finally looks over at him.

"We kissed," she confesses, her gaze falling somewhere between Fischer's eyes and the drawing of Kurt. "A few days ago..." God, has it only been a few days? "A few days ago, we kissed after work, and..." She draws in a breath, trying not to remember, trying not to feel that surge of happiness, of desire, of possibility, that she'd felt when his lips had been on hers. She can still remember how light the touch his hand had been on the side of her neck; she can see him smile afterwards; she can hear his laugher when Sawyer interrupted them… "He seemed happy about it," she told Fischer, focusing her eyes on a corner of the table so she could pretend she wasn't talking to him, wasn't tell him these things that no one else but she and Kurt should know. "He seemed happy about it, and we said we'd see each other later the next day, and..."

She closes her eyes.

You did this to yourself.

"And?" Fischer prompts impatiently. "What happened then?"

She can hear it in his voice: the interest, the need to know. In her periphery, she could swear she even saw him lean forward a little in her chair. He must thrive off misery, she thinks. He must get power from it.

"The next day, at work, he said he wanted to talk. He said we should... sort some things out. I agreed; I thought it would be good..." She draws in a breath, and somehow manages to meet Fischer's eyes. "I know the rules, okay? I get that I'm not an agent or anything, so I don't have the training, but I'm not an idiot. I know this sort of thing between coworkers, superiors and subordinates, is... frowned upon."

She waits for another sarcastic comment from Fischer, but for once, he remains silent across from her. She kind of wishes he would say something; she's having trouble getting this all out with him just sitting there like a judgmental statue. But of course he does nothing that she wants.

"We were supposed to meet up," she continues. "We made a plan, to just talk about it, to talk about us, after work. He said there was a park by his house, he said—"

Meet me there. At ten o'clock.

"—he said he'd wait for me there. He said he'd come by at ten, but—" She breaks off, pushing away the regret rising in her, the guilt coating her every breath, and sorrow pounding itself into the beat of her heart. "I waited, but he never showed. I sat there until ten, after ten, I..." She looks away. She doesn't want to think about the story she is weaving, and the fact that Kurt might've done this when she didn't show, that she would've done it, had their roles been reversed. She would've waited all night for him, had she had that option. "The next day, he brushed it off, saying that we were too complicated, that it was just... too much, the two of us. He said it would never work."

Jane can't help the way her eyes drift back to her drawing of him, the one she's taken out to look at nearly every night since that first one. She wonders if Kurt has any drawings of her, any pictures. Does he think about her when he has trouble sleeping at night, the way she does him? Does doing so torture him, the way it does her?

"The drawing's from before we kissed," she explains quietly, not taking her eyes off of it. "I drew it after we went on this undercover mission—" It's a lie, she drew it well before that, but it's close enough to the truth, and good enough for her story, that likely Fischer won't notice. She can sense him practically salivating across from her, feeding off her sob story. "We were pretending to be married to infiltrate this party," she continues, and she can picture Fischer laughing, later, when he thinks back on this and how pathetic she is. "And I guess I just... I liked pretending with him. I liked having somebody. It was stupid," she whispers, all her lies turning into the truth now. "I know it was dumb to hope, I know it was a bad idea to—to kiss him, and to think that there was anything more, or would be anything more. I don't..." Please let Kurt say this about me one day. "I don't blame him for doing what he thought was right, and stopping things between us."

Somehow, Jane makes herself look Fischer in the eye, makes herself hold it together, makes herself deliver what she hopes will be the end of all of this:

"Bring him in here, if you want," she whispers, not having to fake the hoarseness in her voice, or the shake in her chin. "I'm sure you'd love to further humiliate me by making him go through every moment of how and why and where and when he rejected me. Because seeing him every day certainly isn't enough."

She clenches her jaw, forcing her chin forward, not bothering to unclench her fists as she stares at Fischer. He hardly blinks.

"You asked me earlier, if I was currently having or ever did have a romantic relationship with anyone I worked with, and I said no. I didn't mean to lie when I said that. I just meant to tell the truth—the version of the truth that Kurt clearly subscribes to, as we haven't talked about that kiss once since it happened. I told the truth as he saw and, honestly, as I see it, because no matter how much I might want it to be, or pretend it to be, one kiss is not a relationship. It's a fluke; it's a mistake. It's something you think about for days after and regret, because it didn't turn out the way you wanted."

For a long moment after Jane finishes, Fischer doesn't say anything. He just sits across from her and stares, and Jane does not look away, does not falter. Finally, he reaches forward and takes the sketchbook. Jane watches as he gets to his feet, still holding it in his hands, still staring at the drawing of Kurt there. He stands for a moment, before her, relishing, no doubt, in the power he holds. Then he smiles and laughs a little bit, tapping the cover of the book.

"It really is a good likeness," he murmurs, and then he sets the open sketchbook back on the table in front of her.

Jane watches as he adjusts his coat, and walks to the door. He's just reached for the handle, and pulled the door half open, when he glances over his shoulder, blinking as if only just now remembering she's still there. "Oh," he calls over his shoulder, "You're free to go back to work at anytime, Ms. Shaw. Have a lovely rest of your workday."

And then with one last oily smile, he's gone.

A/N: Sorry for torturing our OTP, but it's kind of my favorite thing to do. :) You guys have no idea how bad I wanted that sketchbook to show up in 1x13. x) Thanks for reading! Reviews would be much appreciated. :)