Author's Note: Hi! It's me, not writing Torture Without You like I should be... Rewatching season three really made me want to write an alternate take on Jane leaving Kurt in Colorado, so this kinda happened. I'm not sure how long it's going to be - maybe only one or two more (smutty and angsty) chapters, maybe more than that if my muse takes it there - but I promise not to abandon TWY. Let me know what you think of this alternate universe so far! :)

Moscow, Russia

"And now, for the ninth night in a row, our reigning champion steps into the ring!"

Cheers went up around the room and the recorded rock music blared dramatically. The lights strobed and flashed enough that an epileptic would have been in serious trouble.

Jane Doe resisted the urge to roll her eyes, double-checked the supportive tape binding her hands and wrists, then ducked under the ropes into the makeshift fighting ring.

There were about fifty people here, almost all of them men, most of them suffering an excess of testosterone and a shortage of brain cells. Moscow's underground fighting ring was technically illegal, but Jane had spotted an off-duty cop or two in the crowd. One of them had even tried his luck against her, back when she'd been fighting her way up the ranks. She'd trounced him like she had all the rest, but offered him her hand to shake afterwards.

She hadn't been here long tonight. As the new reigning champion, all she had to do was show up at the end of the night, kick the ass of whichever poor bastard had bested all the others, and collect her prize money. At the end of tonight, she'd probably have enough saved up to move on, if she needed to.

"It's Bambi!"

As the spotlight fell on her, Jane held up a single fist in acknowledgement of the spectators' cheers, amused at the spectacle of the whole thing. It was a small crowd, but that just meant the people here already knew what she could do. Some of them were rooting for her, probably because she was a woman, and they enjoyed the eye candy of her tattooed body. Some of them were dead against her—probably because she was a woman, and they were feeling more than a little emasculated.

She caught the eye of Vladimir, the organiser, and he gave her a toothy grin. He was an okay sort, for a shady asshole who'd do just about anything for cash. When she'd signed up, using the name of the only fictional deer she could think of as a fighting moniker, he'd laughed uproariously, taken the entry fee she'd held out, and told her he'd call an ambulance once the first guy was done with her.

She'd wiped the smile off his face at the same time as she'd wiped the floor with her first opponent. After that, he'd built up a healthy respect for her, and for the cash she'd brought in over the past week or so.

"You've seen him fight his way up the ranks tonight. You know he's more skilled than he seems. But can he beat our deadly deer? Gentlemen, give a warm welcome to…"

The spotlight fell dramatically on her opponent, and all of Jane's anticipation, all of her adrenaline about the upcoming fight, spiked into an instant of total shock.

"The American!"

Instead of the brawny, oiled up, steroid-pumped type she was expecting, the bright beam of light illuminated a man whose body was only slightly toned. A man who spent as much time sneaking chocolate treats as he did working out. A man whose bare chest was covered in hair that she used to love burying her face in as she inhaled his scent.

Kurt Weller, FBI agent and Jane's husband, stepped forward as the crowd cheered.

He was sweaty, a little grimy, and his lip had been split sometime earlier in the night. He didn't smile or acknowledge the audience. His eyes were on her, and her alone, as he gave her a few seconds to process his presence. Then he cocked his head and raised an eyebrow in a familiar gesture that made her chest hurt: did she want to go a round or two?

Jane looked over at Vladimir and gave a slight shake of her head. The organiser's jaw dropped, and he let out a curse of angry disbelief, but Jane didn't give a damn. She was already crossing the ring, shouldering past the referee who tried to stop her, to meet Kurt halfway.

Her chest collided with his as she threw her arms around him, unable to believe he was really here. She couldn't speak, couldn't think—all she could do was press her lips against his neck and breathe his scent, letting out a tiny sob of relief when he wrapped his arms around her in return, his hand coming up to cradle the back of her head.

Kurt. Her Kurt. She'd missed him so much.

There was so much they needed to talk about, so much she needed to apologise for, but for now, none of that mattered. All she cared about was that he was here with her, holding her so tightly she could hardly breathe.

And he'd fought six other opponents to stand opposite her tonight. He had to be feeling battered and tenderised, even if his bruises weren't visible yet. Concerned, she drew back to look him over.

"Are you okay?" She brushed her fingers against his split lip to indicate her point.

He nodded. "You?"

Before Jane could answer, the referee butted in, demanding that they fight or that one of them forfeit.

She took the wireless microphone the guy held out, and said clearly in Russian, "I forfeit the match and my title as reigning champion. I apologise to anyone who has lost money betting on me in this match, but I'm not going to fight the man that I love."

She handed back the microphone. Then she turned and pressed a light, chaste but lingering kiss against Kurt's lips, unable to resist.

As the crowd erupted—into cheers, jeers, curses and groans—Kurt eased back, smiling a little. "I love you too. Wanna get out of here?"

Jane nodded, her heart feeling lighter than it had in three long months. "Let's go."