A/N: No idea where this one came from. Wrote it super fast. It's maybe a little (or a lot) out of control. Let's pretend O doesn't exist, okay, and enjoy the #jeller smut! :D

x x x

The first time it happened, they were in the locker room. He'd broken up with Allie a week before, both of them unable to continue the charade that Jane was not between them, and he supposed he was feeling fragile. Frustrated. Confused. Lonely. He saw her there in the locker room, alone, and he just didn't think. He did what came naturally; he acted on instinct.

(Those were the right excuses, weren't they? Or no—the wrong excuses. Those were the wrong excuses.)

She was just turning around when he walked in, shrugging into her coat and pulling her hair out from behind the back collar, and she smiled when she caught sight of him.

(Maybe that's what did it, he thinks later. That smile of hers.)

She had her purse slung over one shoulder, and she was picking up her scarf to wrap around her neck as he made his way towards her. Her scarf was maroon; hand-knitted, it looked like. Paired with her green eyes, it made him think of Christmas. It made him think of a lot of things.

She opened her mouth as he approached, perhaps to say "Hey" or "Good night" or some other trivial comment, but nothing ended up coming out, because by the time her lips started to form a word, they were covered by his, and there was no sound, there was nothing in the world, except the slam of his mouth against hers, the force of his hands gripping either side of her jaw to bring her to him, and the weight of his body pressing hers against, and then almost into, her locker.

(Jesus. Had he been that rough with her?)

He hadn't stopped to think, at the time. He'd just kissed her, cornered her, until her hands flew up, bracing against his chest—To shove him away? Had she wanted to?—no, they grabbed at his jacket, they hauled him closer, and when there was a moment of breath, all he could hear was the way she gasped his name, like a drowning person would: desperate, against rationality, filling their lungs with water as they did so, but fighting to be heard anyway—

"Kurt."

He hadn't stopped then; he hadn't even thought of it. Her voice egged him on like the smell of meat would egg on a wolf. He buried a hand in her hair and brought her mouth back to his, devouring it, using the leverage there to guide her mouth to his even though it didn't need to be guided; it was seeking his, just like her hands were seeking him, just like his body was seeking hers.

He could feel himself hard already, and growing harder, and they were so close he knew she had to feel it. He was not embarrassed; he did not care. Let her feel it; let her know—if she somehow didn't know already, what she did to him. How she consumed him.

Her hips bucked up into his, and one of his hands moved instinctively to her jeans, and forewent the buttons and the zipper, just slipped past the fabric, inside her underwear, brushed against—

"God, Jane."

He was hardly been able to speak at the feel of her, the proof of her desire, wet and viscous and warm against his fingertips. He wanted to claim it as his; he wanted to put it to good use. He wanted to taste it—on his fingers and his lips and his cock; he wanted to feel her come around him, on him, for him, by him.

(She will, don't worry, she will.)

He could swear he could smell her, or maybe his mind was just going, because he was starting to feel dizzy now, drunk with want, and her hands were scrabbling at the back of his neck, and in his hair; her mouth was whispering things he couldn't comprehend—

And then she was gone, shoving him off, slipping away, wiping her mouth with frantic eyes before putting her back to him, and hiding in her locker again. It took his mind a second to catch up, to understand. He could hardly hear through the thumping of his heart, and the ringing in his hears, but he made out Tasha's voice, and Reade's voice, both coming to him as if from very far away, and he understood. He hid himself behind his locker, too, as the other two rounded the corner, and he busied himself with checking his phone and zipping up his jacket and pretending to listen to a bunch of voicemails, until both of them left and the locker room door shut behind them.

By the time he looked up, though, Jane was gone too.

x x x

The second time happened four days later, on a Friday. It was like something out of a romantic comedy, or a bad, low-budget porn flick: they got stuck on an elevator together. They had somehow arrived at the Bureau at the same exact time, catching sight of each other in the lobby and immediately trying to look away—which only, of course, made them look at one another more. He would've liked to say he tried to get on a different elevator than her, but that'd be a lie. He waited next to her, side by side, until there was a free one. They hopped on together, and he hit the number for the twelfth floor, and up the lift went.

Until it stopped.

And then the emergency sirens sounded, flashing and screaming through the foot-thick metal walls. Kurt covered his eyes with a hand.

"You've got to be kidding me."

It was 8:57 AM and he hadn't yet had any coffee. He hadn't even had any food. And he was stuck on a locked elevator with Jane.

They had not spoken since Monday, since… Whatever that thing in the locker room had been. They'd avoided each other, quietly, subtly, but it hadn't helped. Whenever he met her eyes, caught a flash of her smile, he was back there in that room, with her pressed against him, her mouth on his. That voice of hers, whispering his name, her body drowning beneath his touch…

He had spent every night since then, and most mornings, too, wondering if the way she had said his name that evening against the locker would be what she would sound like if he were to give her an orgasm. What would she sound like, look like, when she shattered beneath his touch? Be it by mouth, by hand, by cock… Would she cry out differently? Would she scream? Or would she be quiet, made only of gasps and whimpers that would still, nonetheless, drive him insane and scar his eardrums with pleasure?

He wanted to find out. So badly he wanted to find out.

But it was 9 AM and they had a whole day ahead of them.

"How long are we going to be stuck in here?"

He shook his head at her question, staring at the closed doors before them, not wanting to chance looking at her. The last time he'd looked at her when they'd been in an empty space together…

"I don't know," he answered finally. "Could be five minutes, could be five hours." He looked at his watch. Half a minute had passed since the lift had stopped. "It depends on if it's a real emergency."

Jane was quiet for a minute behind him.

Finally she spoke. "Well. What should we do until then?"

It was like she was reading from a script.

x x x

When he turned around, she was waiting. Staring. He tried not to think of it as a challenge—

(But it was.)

—and he stared back. He didn't want to be the one to make the first move this time, not again. He had had time to think since that mindless moment in the locker room on Monday, and many things had become clear:

1.) She was his subordinate, and he could not force himself on her like that again.

2.) She was his friend, and he could not back her into corners like that again.

3.) She was traumatized, still, from coming out of that bag, and from losing her memory, and despite how she'd kissed him and pulled him close, there had to be a limit to her knowledge, a limit to her openness. He had to respect that.

4.) He could not abide by any of the above regulations if he lost his head with her again. He could not lose his head with her again.

She didn't do anything at first. She just stood there and watched him, and he waited, strung tight, for her to lash out as he had earlier in the week. He waited for her to push him up against the walls of the elevator, to strip his clothes off, to strip her clothes off…

His head was already spinning with fantasies by the time she sat down, back against the wall, in the corner of the elevator. He blinked, not clear on what was happening. Wasn't this the part where she launched herself at him, as sex-crazed as he had been the other day? Wasn't this the part where she got on her knees, or he got on his, and they pulled orgasms from each other like unearthing buried treasure?

(She was going easy on you, idiot. For this one second, she was making it easy. Why did you question it?)

He sat down next to her. A good idea, a bad idea? He didn't really care either way.

With the exception of the muffled screech of the sirens outside the elevator doors, it was quiet in the interior. Kurt stared at his weak reflection in the steel, and let his mind wander, trying to think of everything except the woman sitting less than a foot from him, and what he'd like to do to her, do with her.

"We should probably talk about the other day."

He didn't know where the words came from. One minute, he was staring at the buttons on the elevator keypad—Push for Alarm—and the next, he was speaking. He was talking about the thing that did not get talked about, the thing that they should probably both try to forget.

"Should we?"

He glanced over at her questioning response, and found her staring straight ahead. She did not look over at him—not yet, thank God—and she shrugged.

"Is there really anything to say, Kurt?"

This was the part where he could've—should've—apologized. For taking advantage, for being rough, for not even once asking or stopping to see if that kiss, and everything else, had been what she'd wanted.

"I haven't been able to stop thinking about it."

There, that was something to say. It wasn't the right thing, not even close, but it was something.

He could swear he saw a flicker of a smile on Jane's face, but she was too in profile for him to really tell. She was silent for a long while, looking at the floor.

Then she asked, "Is it over with Allie? Really over?"

He didn't ask how she knew, or who had told. He just nodded, and said yes, it was.

And they were like some kind of magic words.

x x x

She was the one to attack him this time—(Yes, attack.)—and he welcomed her much as she had him that first time: shocked, but agreeable. Bewildered, but eager. She turned to him in one fluid movement, crouching up to straddle him and then sinking down, her knees bent on the floor on either side of him, her ass in his lap, her hands, her breasts, her mouth, all flush against him.

She didn't bother with pleasantries the way he hadn't; she tore through the buttons on his shirt—literally tore, he lost two that went flying to the corners of the elevator—and then she groaned softly when she realized he had an undershirt on. He would've smiled, would've been smug at her feral need to touch his skin, if he had any modicum of thought or control left in his body. But he had nothing, he was nothing, except the embodiment of pure want that he became whenever she touched him.

She pushed his shirt off his shoulders, lifted his undershirt over his head, and when she finally put her hands on him, he shuddered, and bucked against her, into her chest and hips, and when she moaned in response, he smiled finally, relishing in the sounds he brought out of her.

(He'll remember that forever, the way she arched into him, the way her dance matched his, from the very beginning.)

He brought his hands to her waist, pushing up her tank top—she had already thrown off her own jacket—and even as he kissed her, he kept his eyes down. He had seen it all before—the tattoos, the writing, the images, but to see it on her live body, moving in his arms… She was like some foreign work of art. Every inch he bared to his eyes was unknown but strangely enticing. Even as he wanted release, he wanted to go slow, wanted to explore her, but she would not have it. When he took too long, she reached down herself, and tore her shirt off, her bra off, reached for his pants—

He stopped her there, and laid her back on the floor of the elevator. He did not want this to be over in five seconds; he did not want them to be a rushed quickie in between the rest of the action of the day. Maybe they could do that later, when they knew each other. But now, the first time? He would savor her.

(Not just the first time. Every time.)

She looked angry, at first, when he pushed her back and knelt above her. But then he reached for her pants, pulled them and her boots off, and her annoyance turned into something akin to worry. He tried not to frown at the sight of it, tried not to linger about her fears, her unknowns. He would make everything known to her. He would make every fear disappear. He had to; there was no other choice.

With his mouth and hands, he followed the trail of ink up her legs, past her knees, her thighs. She still had her underwear on, but he could tell by looking at it that she wanted it off. He smiled, just for a second, and caught her eye.

"Kurt."

She whispered his name the same way she had that first time, in the locker room: desperate, wanting, needing this one thing that only he was capable of giving her. He would wonder later, if she did it on purpose, sounded the same on purpose. He wouldn't ask. Some mysteries were meant to stay mysteries.

She didn't say anything as he hooked a finger over each side of her underwear and pulled it down her legs. He removed it carefully, over each foot, caressing her heels briefly. Then he tossed the underwear aside, with the rest of the clothes, and knelt before her, only half-naked himself as he stared down at her completely bare body. He tried to search for a word, for something to say.

You are so beautiful, is what most men would think of, and perhaps what most women would want to hear. You're sexy, you're gorgeous, you're beautiful. I want you. I need you. I have to have you.

All those things were true, in her case, and from his perspective. But none of them felt right.

So in the end, he said nothing.

(He still regrets that.)

He just bent down, lifted her already spread thighs, and said all the unsayable words to her other mouth, her other heart, her source of heat and life and desire—so much desire. He almost could not keep up with it, the amount her body wept for him, longed for him. He lapped up every drop, and then squeezed out more, with his fingers, his tongue, his lips wrapping around her most sensitive spot. He gripped her ass, her hip, stretched his hand up to thumb her breasts, when he had time. She liked that. She moaned louder and pushed herself into his hand when he touched her there, and so soon he didn't stop.

Her hand came up to cup his, to guide them together, teach them together.

He drew it out as long as he could. He went slow, he went fast, he went deep and shallow, but he always kept her away from that final moment. He brought her to the cusp or he let her lounge in the middle, but he did not let her go over. Not until she begged him, not until she cried out so desperately, her body arching off the floor beneath him, Kurt, please. Please help me finish. Please make me come.

He didn't ask where she learned those words, didn't ask how she knew what to say. He simply obeyed her, and relished in her cracked cry of completion, and let her drown him.

He went under the waves with her, and did not surface for many minutes.

(Not true. He's still under the waves with her. He probably always will be.)

x x x

Forty minutes later, once the lead firefighter and his comrade had pried open the doors, and caught sight of them sitting on the floor at the back of the elevator, he sighed in relief, and smiled, wiping the sweat off his forehead. "Thank God, normal people again. Would you believe the last couple we helped out of an elevator was butt naked?"

x x x

The third time it happened, they were at her apartment. He was, and would remain, extremely grateful for that. There were plenty of things he would never forgive himself for when it came to her, but the fact that the first time they made love was in her bed, by her choice, would forever be something he was thankful for.

The frantic kisses against the locker, the orgasm in the elevator, that had all been good—great, more than great—but it was not what he wanted out of this. It was not how he wanted her to remember him, or them.

x x x

It was like a date. A first date and a fifth date and a tenth date, all rolled into one. He had wanted to make up for the locker room, wanted to explain his silence in the elevator, and he thought cooking her dinner before he took her to bed, that was a good way to make up for things, wasn't it?

Of course they'd have to talk about it some day. Of course. But that day didn't have to be today, and those talks did not have to hang over them forever.

He made her chicken stir-fry, with onions and peppers and broccoli, and he let her make the rice. She was trying to get better in the kitchen—a person couldn't live on take-out forever, after all—and he said he could teach her, if she wanted. She glanced at him and asked how in the world she should repay him, and he stared for a moment, before grinning. He liked her flirtatious side; it surprised him.

(Still does, sometimes.)

She helped him chop the vegetables, slice the chicken, mix the ingredients. While they waited for the marinade to finish, she opened a bottle of wine. It was a bad one, but he didn't tell her that. He drank some, and then kissed her, and when she slipped her tongue into his mouth, he thought maybe the wine didn't taste so bad.

They hardly heard the timer when it went off. She was sitting on the counter, him standing between her spread legs, and all either of them could focus on was how much of the other's skin they could touch without actually getting undressed. The bing! of the timer made her jump, but he did have his hands under her shirt at the time, so he hadn't thought much of it. He liked making her jump.

"The chicken… Kurt, the food…"

He remembered then, and pulled away from her with a swallowed sigh, wondering why in the world he had ever insisted on cooking her dinner. Couldn't they just head back to the bedroom now, finish what they started in that elevator, in that locker room?

Hell, do away with the bedroom, they could use the counter. It was the right height.

x x x

She lingered over the meal like she was trying to torture him with it. She ate every last piece of chicken, every vegetable, every grain of rice on her plate. Bite by bite, grain by grain. She sipped at her wine, and filled a second glass of water, and she stretched things out as if she were purposefully trying to drive him insane.

(She admitted later that, yes, it had been on purpose. For fun, though, she corrected. Not to make you go insane.)

When finally she was done, and took her dishes to the sink, he nearly groaned aloud in relief. Finally, finally, they could do what they came here to do, they could end the charade and get right down to—

She started running the water. He almost couldn't believe it when she picked up a sponge. He stood on the other side of the table and stared, mouth actually open.

Torturer, he thought, his mind buzzing with loss, with disbelief. Horrid woman.

And then he thought, Two can play at this.

x x x

She jumped when he came up behind her, and wrapped his arms around her middle to hug her back against him. He smirked into her hair at her surprise, and dug his chin into her shoulder.

"What're you doing, Jane?" he asked her, and his voice was so low it made a shiver run down her back. It took her a second to gather herself and answer.

"I'm cleaning the dishes," she replied, her voice a little brighter than usual, trying to make up, he guessed, for how much she probably no longer felt like doing this chore.

"The dishes don't need to be cleaned right now," he reminded her gently. He tightened his arms around her middle, dug his fingertips into the little hollows between her ribs. He brought his lips to her ear, and she shivered again. "Come to bed with me, baby."

He had never called her by a nickname before, but it fell from his lips naturally for some reason that night and, for some reason that night, it worked. She put down the sponge, and turned off the water.

"Bed," she said quietly, as if trying out the word, while she turned her head towards him.

He leaned back to meet her eye. Nodded once. "Bed."

x x x

She turned on the light when they walked in, out of habit, he thought, and he was grateful. He did not want to make love with her in the dark; he wanted to see all of her, every inch, every tattoo, everything. She held his hand loosely in hers as she led the way to the bed, and he smiled a little at her slow pace. It was reassuring, oddly, to see her a little nervous. He was a little nervous, too.

She came to a stop at the edge of the bed and let go of his hand. Her eyes were on his shoes, and he waited until they rose to his face to speak.

"Worried?" he asked, smiling a little, eyeing her gently as if to say, Hey, me too. It's okay.

She smiled back, out of habit, and shrugged. "I don't know. A little, maybe." She reached out for his hands, and he squeezed them tight.

"Don't be," he whispered, tugging on them as he stepped closer. He kissed her once, slowly, gently. He kissed her cheeks, pressed his face against her bird. "I'll take care of you, I swear," he promised against her neck.

He felt her nod. Felt her pull her hands from his, felt her cup the sides of his neck. He looked up when she urged him, and found her green eyes bright and her mouth smiling.

"Take me to bed, Kurt," she whispered, and he obeyed.

x x x

He tried to go slow, at first. He laid her down on the bed gently, being careful not to put too much of his weight on her, being careful to leave her room to breathe, to move. But she hardly seemed to want to do either. She wrapped her hands around his back the moment he crouched over her, and she did not let go. She tugged him down onto her until he could hardly keep from crushing her, and even then, she wrapped a leg around him, like it wasn't close enough.

And she never took her mouth off him. God, that mouth of hers…

(He shudders to think of it sometimes, of what it can do. Of the power it has over him.)

He felt like she was sucking the air out of him, out of the room, when she kissed him. Every time their lips met it was like a battle—not for supremacy, not for control, but for sheer survival. He needed his breath, he needed to think through this, and she was stealing it. She was wreaking havoc on his mind.

In minutes, he was grinding himself against her shamelessly, eager and hard enough already, wanting her even though they were both fully clothed. His desire sparked at that, the idea of them having sex fully clothed. He'd fantasized about it enough: at work, at night, even while driving with the team, sometimes. He'd imagined coming up behind her in a deserted corridor at the Bureau, unzipping his pants, unzipping hers, taking her quick against a wall—taking, why was it always taking, in his gutter of a mind? He'd imagined the way she'd scream when he made her come—she always screamed, in his mind; not so much in real life—and the way he'd fight to muffle the sound with his mouth, even though all he wanted was for her to shriek so everyone could hear, everyone could know, that he did this to her. He made her lose control.

"Do you have condoms?"

She broke the kiss, panting, to ask.

He nodded, sucking in air as he reached in his back pocket. He was suddenly very glad he'd thought of that before he'd come over. He had worried, earlier, that she might find it presumptuous—a ridiculous thought, given how he'd gone down on her at 9 AM earlier this morning, and the plans they'd made for tonight—but still, he hadn't wanted to overstep any boundaries she might have.

"Do you really want them now?" he asked, still breathing heavily. When she frowned up at him, he added quickly, "I mean, don't you want me to…?" He trailed off, looking down at her body beneath him, and she caught up quickly, shaking her head with a smile.

"No, not right now." She reached up to cup either side of his face, her fingers gently brushing against his stubble there. "Right now… I want it to be me and you this time," she whispered, finding his eyes, as bright as hers, in the lit room. "I want us to do this together."

He nodded, understanding, and kissed her once, long and slow, before pulling back. He fished one of the condoms out of his back pocket, and then took off his jeans, his shirt. He watched her as she undressed, kicking off her boots, her pants, her tank top. He smiled when she kept on her bra and underwear; it was as if she knew he might want to take them off himself. Or as if she wanted him to take them off himself.

(She did. He did.)

He left his dark boxer briefs on, too, and lay down at her side. He held the still-wrapped condom between two fingers as he drew her mouth back to his with a free hand. She moved into him at once, not just her mouth, but all of her, and he shifted towards her, each eager for the heat the other offered. When she laid a hand on his chest, above his heart, he did the same to her, and for what felt like an eternity, they laid there, listening to each other's heartbeats sync up, and speed apart, and fall back together. They kissed long and deep and slow and soft and there was no rush, somehow, despite the desire that had led them here. They let their hearts and their blood and their hormones run ahead, and they rested together, in the time before.

(When he thinks back now, he always thinks of that time, with their hands on each other's hearts in her bed, as the time when he fell in love with her. He isn't sure if it's actually true—if he loved her then—but when she asks, and he peers back into their joint past, it's always the first thing he thinks of: her hand on his heart, his hand on hers, them entwined on her bed, not yet joined but already slipping and sliding into one being.)

Eventually, when the hunger for more became too much, her hand wandered downwards from his heart. He did not stop her when she slipped it beneath the waistband of his boxer briefs, but he did shudder when she took him in her hand. He grunted out her name, and a couple curses, as she felt his weight, his thickness, gauged his length. He buried his head in her neck and bit at the bird, hoping the ink would hide whatever mark he left. Or not.

"I want you," she whispered when his hips bucked wildly into her priming hand, and he would've laughed, if he'd had breath. Isn't that my line? he'd say. But he had no breath, no words. So he kissed her instead, hard and rough, his hand tangled too deep in her hair, and then pulled away. He shed his underwear, applied the condom, and rolled them over until she was fully on her back, and he was crouching above.

She smiled, lying prone beneath him as he freed her of her bra, her underwear, as if she were being pampered. He couldn't help but grin, because, yes, that was exactly what was happening. For both of them.

He knelt down between her legs, and placed one hand against her spread opening. She was hot beneath his touch, and he closed his eyes, willing himself to calm down. He wasn't even inside her yet; he couldn't come now. He needed this to last—for her, and for him. He parted her wet folds easily, unable to bite back a smile at how ready she was. He'd hardly touched her tonight, at least not intimately, and she was as wet as she'd been in the elevator this morning. He slipped a finger inside her, listened to her sigh his name softly. He watched her eyes fall closed as he pumped gently, readying her as she had readied him. He wondered if she had fantasized about him, too.

(She had.)

He wondered what she imagined—forbidden quickies in the office, like he did, or long nights in bed like this one? Did she imagine him worshiping her like couples did in the movies, complete with clasped hands spread over bedsheets and breathy gasps? Did she long for him to linger over the tattoos covering her body with his hands, his tongue, his lips; or did she want him to look through them as if they were not there?

(All of the above. None of the above. She still hasn't given him a straight answer.)

He added another finger, more for himself now than for her. It was clear she was more than ready, but she did not complain at the increased pressure, in fact, she lifted her hips up from the bed at it, and he grinned, bending down to her level to kiss her. He could watch her react to his touch forever, he thought, and still never tire of it.

(He hasn't tired yet. The odds are looking good that he never will.)

After a minute, he had to pull away. She had asked not to come by his mouth, and he guessed the same applied to his hand, and so he withdrew, but only because she had asked. Holding her gaze, he brought his fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean, tasting her like some sort of illicit treat, never once blinking to break their eye contact.

(Even to this day, after all this time, she still says that's the sexiest thing he's ever done.)

(He's been trying to one-up that moment for years. She has yet to pass on the crown. But one day…)

"You want this?" he asked, joining her on the mattress again, their bodies flush once more. "You're sure?" He asked twice because he never asked before, not once, and he regretted that. He didn't want to regret this. He didn't want her to regret it.

She nodded, reaching her hands up to frame his face. She brushed her fingers against the side of his neck, his ears; she stroked her thumbs over his cheeks.

"I'm very sure," she whispered.

He nodded, keeping his eyes on hers as he reached between them, and guided himself into her. He went slow, pausing at increments, to let her—and him—adjust. He felt like he was going to burst inside her already, and taking breathers helped. When he was fully inside, he rested there a minute, letting her acclimate. He kissed her while that minute passed, cupped her breasts, stroked the bird on her neck. Anything to make her feel comfortable.

(Anything to make her feel loved.)

When she whispered his name, he took it as his cue to continue, and he pulled out most of the way before sinking back in, a little quicker than before, but still slow. Until she said the word faster, he would not be driving into her. Until she begged him to, he would not be pushing her into the mattress. He repeated these private promises again and again in his head as he went as slow as possible.

And then finally came those glorious words—More, Kurt, please—and he allowed himself to move inside her as he wanted to, allowed himself to kiss her as he wanted to, to touch her as he wanted to, for he no longer had to hold onto his iron control simultaneously.

"Don't stop," she whispered, and her voice was fast and her breath shallow, but they could make music out of those words, he thought, out of the sounds that came from her lips while he was inside her. The best music.

Her words became less and less frequent the further they went—deeper and harder and faster and longer—but he didn't mind. He liked her strangled gasps just the same as her full sentences; he liked her errant mumblings just as much as he liked her rational entreaties.

But what he liked most of all?

(Oh. That.)

The weak cry she gave off, when she came, and again when he came, softer, like an echo. It was the sound of her breaking apart, of them coming together. It sounded like her being killed and her being reborn all at once. It would be horrible, if she didn't make it so beautiful.

He thought then, hearing it for the first time while inside her, that he could listen to that sound for the rest of his life.

(And he can; he does. He will.)

It was so wonderful.

(It is so wonderful.)

x x x

They were quiet, afterwards, as they lay with one another and came back to earth. He got up only to dispose of the condom, and clean himself off, and then he turned off the light and returned to bed with her. She whispered something about being a mess when he pulled her back into his arms, but he shook his head, and held her tight.

"I like you when you're a mess," he whispered in her ear, nuzzling his face into her neck, and she smiled, kissing the side of his head. She cupped the back of his head and ran a hand through his short hair, pulling him close to breathe him in. He did the same; he loved the smell that clung to her now—a mix of sex and sweat and her and him—and he thought he never wanted to live without it. He wanted to be surrounded by this scent always.

When they got tired, they shifted on the bed, and under the covers, so that they could be comfortable when they inevitably fell asleep. He ended up lying flat on his stomach, his usual position, and she lay on her side. He wrapped an arm loosely around her waist, and she bent her head to his shoulder, so they could be together still.

It was quiet for a while, just the sound of the two of them breathing, and the rain that had picked up outside, and the occasional rustle of sheets when one of them moved.

At some point late in the night, before they fell asleep, he heard her say his name.

His eyes blinked open and found hers, there in the darkness, just a few inches from his. She stared at him a moment, watching, waiting. Perhaps deciding. Then she said the rest:

"I want you to know that I'm really happy, Kurt."

He stared back at her a moment, taking in the brightness of her green eyes it the dark room, the hint of a smile just barely flickering at the edges of her lips. She was waiting for him to return in kind, nervous that he might not. Oh, how could he not?

He smiled, and bent his head to hers.

"I'm really happy too, Jane," he whispered back.

(Still am.)

x x x

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! It is so lovely to be back in no-problems, no-memories, fluffy jeller land! I was rather nervous about posting this fic, so if you have any thoughts either way, I would love to get some feedback!