A/N: An unintended follow-up to Part 1. I've been trying to think about what J&O's life would be like (outside of their family) in this AU, and particularly how Jane would interact not only with the team, but—of course—with K. Weller. So, here's a stab at it. Please enjoy. :)
When Oscar woke the next morning, Jane was already up and moving around. He groaned, blinking his eyes into the sunlight streaming in through the half-opened shades. The light was bright—too bright—which meant it could only a little after six o'clock in the morning.
"Wha's going on?" he mumbled, rolling over in bed to get away from the blinding light. He caught a glimpse of the time on their bedside clock—6:03—and swore under his breath. They hadn't gone to sleep until after 3 AM last night. It was too early to be awake. There was no reason to be awake.
But there Jane was, on her feet, half-dressed already. As he lay there and blinked through sleep and sunshine, and watched her go through her purse, Oscar frowned. She looked like she was on her way out.
"Where're you going?" he asked, rubbing some of the sleep from his eyes. He looked at the empty space in bed beside him, where she should still be. Where they both should be, sound asleep for at least another half-hour. Or maybe not quite sound asleep, if their discussion from last night still held water...
"Hey." He craned his neck to look at her, feeling a little bit more awake now. "What happened to all that sex we said we were gonna have? You want that baby or not?"
She laughed, eyeing him over her shoulder. "No offense, but you don't look like you could get the job done right now even if I did havetime."
"Oh, shut up," he mumbled, letting his head fall back into his pillow. "I exhausted myself last night—and to your benefit, I might add."
She smiled, tucking her hair behind her ears before making her way over to their bed. "I know you did." She bent down and kissed his cheek. "And I appreciate it."
"Where you off to then?" he asked, rousing a bit as she moved away. She wasn't wearing her usual work clothes, he noticed.
She glanced down, too. She was in her old uniform: jeans, light shirt, boots set out to put on. He knew the answer before she even said it.
"The Bureau called."
"Oh." He pushed himself up in bed, peering more closely at her now. His eyes lingered on the tattoos he could see—on her arms, her neck, her hands. "Which one?" he asked.
She pulled up her shirt, pointing to a small circular tattoo on the left side of her stomach. "You don't know this one, do you?"
He shook his head, as they both knew he would. "Sorry," he added with a slight frown. Not for the first time, he wished he had all the answers she was looking for.
When they'd come to the FBI all those years ago, to inform her team of the group and the mission that was quickly spiraling out of their control, Oscar had turned in all the information he knew. He spent weeks in interrogation, going over every little detail he possessed: about her, about who she used to be, about the tattoos, about who had created them and who had inked them and who had the most to gain and the most to lose from their decoding. He told the FBI everything he knew—but he had not known everything. He still did not. That small tattoo on her stomach was just one example.
The calls from the Bureau—out of the blue like this, frantic, hopeful—were not exactly uncommon. Every couple months, she got a call; sometimes it was more often. Sometimes less. Once, they'd gone half a year without seeing a government number on their caller ID. They always had good reason to contact her—she knew the language involved in the case, or she had some background with the suspect or location, or they simply had hit a dead end, and they hoped her now detached (but always shrewd) set of eyes might catch something. He wondered which it was today. He didn't ask—she was in enough of a rush.
"You gonna be there all day?" he asked, stifling a yawn.
"Knowing these cases, probably multiple days," she sighed, sitting on the edge of the bed as she pulled on socks, and then reached for her boots.
He nodded in understanding. "You called work?"
"They let me go as usual." She glanced over her shoulder at him. "Can you take Ant to daycare, though? They need me now, and I don't have time to go uptown—"
He nodded. "Of course." He paused, watching her for a moment, his mouth turning down in a frown. "Call me later, though, will you? If you can do lunch—or dinner? I'd like to see you at least once after you disappear back into the bowels of the Bureau."
"Of course." A frown flickered on her lips, too, as she added, "And I hope I'll actually be home in time for dinner."
"Mm. Lots of that going around recently."
She put up a smile, and after tying her boots, leaned over to squeeze his arm in reassurance. "Love you," she whispered, bending down to kiss him. Then she got to her feet, grabbed her purse, and headed for the door.
"Rain check on all that sex?" he called after her. "Can't get that second kid you want without it, you know."
She grinned, catching onto the doorframe on her way out to keep herself in the room. "Rain check," she agreed. "I promise."
He smiled and waved goodbye, and then stole a few more minutes of sleep before getting up to wake Anthony.
Reade caught sight of her signing in at the lobby, and checked her in so she could ride up to the twelfth floor with him.
"Been a while!" he called, spotting her across the crowded entryway. Jane turned at the sound of his voice, smiling at his tall, besuited frame. Despite her informal outfits, she had always been appreciative of the professional respect he had for the job, and the way it affected everything from the way he spoke to the way he dressed.
"I saw you and Sarah and Sawyer on Tuesday," she replied as they hugged briefly, and he grinned, acknowledging this with a quick nod.
"It's different seeing you here, though," he replied, checking her through security and leading the way to the elevator bank.
At his side, she nodded. It was always different coming back to the FBI. After having spent months here every single day—and treating it as more of a home than her safe house had been—it was still a little odd to pop in and out as she had been doing these past four or so years.
She glanced at him as they rode up, searching for signs of disappointment or unhappiness or even betrayal. But Reade merely smiled when he saw her looking, and asked after Anthony and Oscar. She gave him the answers: they were good; her husband had just gotten back from a work trip; her son was still obsessed with the garbage pick-up in the mornings—and she almost added something else. She almost added what she and Oscar had decided last night, almost added that Reade might have another member of her family to ask after come a year or two. But then the light behind the number 12 lit up on the display, and the elevator binged open, and there they were, back where it had all started.
The floor had not changed much in the last four years: most of the same people were still around—Reade and Tasha and Patterson and Kurt and Mayfair—and the offices remained exactly the same. All that had changed was her: her comings and goings, her changed body, the ring on her finger, and the life she had outside of the office.
The few new hires since her last trip into the NYO stared as she stepped onto the floor, but she didn't mind so much. She'd sat through the stares for months after she came out of that bag; she'd sat through them again after she'd had Anthony. People will always stare.
She followed Reade down the center of the office, and back into Patterson's lab where the technician was conferring with Kurt over a digital blow-up of the tattoo in question. As Reade walked forward, Jane lingered a bit by the door, taking in the sight of them together, still hard at work. She knew when she left that it would change things, but she was happy this hadn't changed—their dedication to the cases, their need to uncover every last truth, and to protect all the people that they could by doing so.
Patterson glanced up first and spotted her, a warm smile spreading over her kind face. "Jane!" she called happily, setting her tablet aside to rush forward and envelop Jane in a too-tight hug, as usual. "Aw, it's been a while," she sighed into Jane's shoulder, and the tattooed woman couldn't help but laugh.
"That's what Reade said," she smiled, pulling back. "I saw you just a couple weeks ago."
"But that's—" Patterson started to reply.
"—not the same, though," Kurt finished for her.
Patterson stood back, moving to the side as he followed in her footsteps towards Jane. Jane smiled, pulling him into a hug, too. A lighter, less bone-crushing one than Patterson's, but warm and welcome nonetheless.
"Hey," she said over his shoulder. "Good to see you again."
"Been a while," he repeated, like the others, and this time, she did not correct him. Because unlike the others, she had not seen him recently; in fact, the last time she'd seen him had been here, at the office, nearly four months ago. She held him, and tried not to let that sour feeling of loss invade this moment.
Then they let go, and Kurt and Patterson debriefed her and Reade on the next case.
Jane did not, as it turned out, have much time to break for lunch, but she didn't mind so much. Despite the fact that her husband was welcome on Bureau property, and no longer treated like a criminal, she knew it put a sink in his step whenever he had to come. That only happened very rarely—like when he recognized a tattoo they had called her in to decode. Most of the time, though, they were able to work off the information he had given them all those years ago. But sometimes, a bit of a closer look was required. Luckily, though, that was not the case today.
Nonetheless, Jane called him when the team broke briefly for lunch, just to check up. He was on break, too, thankfully, so she didn't cut into his day. He yawned when he answered the phone, and it made her smile, thinking of the previous night. Already, his week away seemed like an event years in the past.
"How's it going?" he asked once they'd said hello.
She shrugged over her quick salad, as if he were sitting across from her to see. "Slow. Patterson thinks she cracked a number code from the design, and now we're just searching through endless possibilities." She sighed, pushing her food around.
"So… basically they're just waiting for a lightbulb to go off over your head?"
She smiled a little. Of course he understood. "Yeah. They're waiting for a lightbulb." She sighed, "And the electricity just isn't working today."
"You'll get there," he encouraged. "You always do."
She nodded silently. What he said was true—she had yet to meet a case that she hadn't eventually cracked (or helped to crack)—but still, that was hard to remember, let alone believe, when this case had been going nowhere for hours.
She let the conversation drift away from work, and asked him about his day, asked him about Ant, asked him about anything. He laughed when they ended up talking about the weather forecast for the rest of the week.
"Sounds like you should probably get back," he suggested gently.
She sighed, knowing he was right. She had gone on long enough, and there were just scraps left of her food. She should get back to work. Still, she wished she could sit here and talk to him all day. Better yet, she wished she could go back to her real job, and leave all this uncertainty and confusion behind once and for all. There was a reason she'd left the FBI, and every time she returned to it, she was reminded why.
"Go on," he encouraged, sensing her hesitation. "Solving the tattoo will make it all go away faster, you know that."
"I know that," she agreed quietly. Then she whispered her love to him, he returned in kind, and they hung up. The team was already waiting for her when she got back to Patterson's lab, running through a new set of combinations.
By five o'clock, they were still no closer to figuring out what the numbers meant. (Now, Patterson was convinced, they were supposed to be letters. Or symbols. Or something? Jane had lost track hours ago.) They were all sitting around a table, pouring over combinations and past cases' identifying characteristics, trying to find some connection to latch onto. Each person stuck to their own side of the table, their own year of cases. With four sides to a table and five of them, Jane was sharing a space with Kurt.
It was kind of nice—reminded her of the old days—but whenever they accidentally touched, or she reached over onto his side to check a number, she noticed he stiffened beside her. She tried not to let it get to her; it had been like this between them ever since she'd left the FBI. Ever since they'd stopped being close friends.
Sometimes, during quiet moments where she had too much time to think and was in such close proximity to him, like now, she thought about stopping and talking to him about it. She thought about just having the two of them sit down, clear the air, and either try—or not try—to be friends again. She knew it had been hard for him, incredibly hard, when she'd left the FBI. For a long time, she had thought they hadn't spoken because he'd felt betrayed by her leaving. Abandoned. Left behind to deal with the mess she'd created all by himself. But then he'd come by to visit her in the hospital, just after Anthony had been born, and she'd seen the look on his face.
It had been like that little neighbor girl had disappeared all over again, and then been found all over again, in the span of two seconds.
She had wanted to tell him then—as she still wanted to tell him now—that he should move on. Let it go. She wanted so badly to tell him that whether or not she was Taylor, it didn't matter—it was in the past, like everything else. It wasn't a part of her anymore, if it even ever had been.
But she knew asking him to shed Taylor was like asking her to shed her tattoos. Sure, she could erase them from existence, but the proof would be everywhere: on her recovering skin, in all the old pictures, in all the files at the FBI.
She could still remember, as if from another life, the one time she'd been to his apartment, when they'd been friends, and she'd seen the file he kept on Taylor. She'd been having dinner with him and Sarah and Sawyer. While they'd waited for the meal to be served, he had shown her around the apartment. It had been in a slight state of upheaval, given Sarah and Sawyer's unexpected move-in, and so some things were out of place. One of those things had been Taylor Shaw's police report. Jane had spotted it on top of a stack of books that had lost their bookcase. She had not said anything at the time—and given how that dinner ended, she had never said anything afterwards—but it had stuck with her.
She knew if she were to go back to his home and search through it right now, she'd find that file, probably in a place of reverence. She knew he wouldn't have let it slip away, like he let her—both versions of her—slip away.
In the end, she said nothing, as usual. But she was careful to keep to her side of the table as they worked.
"Are you sure you want to stay?" Patterson asked an hour and a half later. She had her hand over the phone; the delivery guy was waiting. "Because you know you don't have to. You can go home; you can be with your family. We'll see you tomorrow."
But Jane shook her head. Despite the discomfort she sometimes felt while at the Bureau, her old loyalty to the team ran deep, and surpassed everything else. "If you guys are staying late, I'm staying late." At the frown on Patterson's face, she added, "It's okay, I don't mind. And besides—Oscar just had a week without Ant; I'm sure they both want some time together."
"I'm sure they both want time with you, too," Patterson pointed out quietly.
Jane smiled, and met the blonde's kind eye. "Thank you," she whispered. Then she pushed the take-out menu towards her. "Can you get me some pad thai, please?"
Reade and Kurt didn't eat with them, preferring to catch whatever game was on in Kurt's office instead of sitting around the table in Patterson's lab. Usually Tasha would be with them—never one to miss a televised sporting event, that woman—but her team was already out of the running for whatever championship was going on, and she was too bitter to watch the other teams play.
The boys had barely left to watch the game, and Jane had only just opened her container, when the yawning started. She shut her eyes as the first one ripped through her, lifting up a hand to stifle the noise. She'd done her best to beat back this coming exhaustion all day, self-medicating with coffee and caffeinated tea on and off, but now, it had finally come to hit her.
As Patterson focused on transferring her curry to a plate without spilling anything, Tasha caught Jane's eye with a grin.
"Late night last night, huh?"
Jane rolled her eyes—the teasing from Tasha was not new—but in light of the previous night, she could still feel her cheeks heat a bit at the suggestion. She buried her face in her take-out container, muttering, "Just tired, Tash."
Zapata nodded along, taking a bite of her noodle dish. "And the husband?" she asked once she'd swallowed. "Is he—Oh, let me guess—just tired, too?"
"Tasha," Patterson complained through a mouthful of rice. "I'm eating. Come on. Stop it."
"What?" Zapata shrugged innocently. "It was just a question."
"I'm sure he's tired, yes," Jane answered, doing her best to sound as annoyed as possible (which wasn't hard) so Zapata wouldn't notice anything else. "Anthony was up late last night," she added without thinking.
In a second, the entire atmosphere around the table shifted. Patterson stopped eating; Zapata dropped her fork.
"Is he okay?" Patterson rushed to say, rising out of her chair. "What happened? Was he—"
"Is it his lungs?" Zapata cut in. She reached for her purse, digging out her phone. "You know my cousin works at St. Mary's, I can call and get you an appointment as soon as—"
"No, no, no," Jane hurried to say, reaching out for both of them. She squeezed their hands gently, even as she wanted to hit herself over the head for her comment—she knew better than to drag Ant into these sorts of things. They had all been there at his months-early birth; they all worried for him. He was healthy now, but he would likely always be small; he will always have been born premature. And they will always worry, as she will. "He's fine," she assured them both, looking each of her old coworkers in the eye. "He just—" The truth sounded so trivial now, almost stupid. "He wanted to wait up for his dad, is all."
"Oh." Patterson blew out a breath, and reached for her water. "Well, that's nice."
Zapata put her phone away, and closed her eyes for a moment, calming down.
"I didn't mean to worry you guys," Jane said quietly. "You know I would've said something earlier if anything had happened—"
Patterson nodded, laying a hand on her arm. "We know, Jane. It's just a gut reaction with him." She tried for a smile, and Jane did too. "He was up late, though?" Patterson asked a second later. "I thought you said Oscar's plane got back at four."
Jane sighed, taking a bite of her dinner. "Yeah, it should've. But there was a storm in Chicago, so he got stuck... Didn't make it home until one AM."
"Jesus," Patterson muttered, shaking her head in commiseration.
"Ah..." The smug smile had crept back onto Zapata's face. "So that means you didn't get to sleep until... What? Three in the morning? Four?"
"Four in the morning?" Jane rolled her eyes. "Tasha, what do you think we are, teenagers? We didn't have sex for three hours straight."
Zapata feigned offense. "Why Jane, who said anything about sex! I was merely implying that you two were having a very long and involved heart-to-heart talk. You know, discussing married people things."
Jane rolled her eyes. She opened her mouth to reply, but then her phone chimed. She reached for it, glad for the distraction, and was greeted by a series of pictures from the man in question.
The first one was of a pile of uncooked spaghetti noodles scattered on the floor. The next was of a spill of what looked like tomato sauce all down the side of the counter. Another was of a shattered plate on the floor, with cooked spaghetti and sauce spreading out from its place of impact like a gruesome bull's-eye. The last was of their son, his face, clothes, hair, and the table in front of him entirely smeared with food.
The text at the end read, For some reason I thought spaghetti would be a good, no-stress idea.
Patterson snorted when Jane showed them the photos. "Idiot."
"Trade him in for a newer model," Zapata added. "I hear they make husbands with brains nowadays."
Jane laughed, relaying the message. He texted back a picture of himself scowling at the insult. Followed by: Tell Zapata she's never allowed to come to our house again. And then: That goes for you, too. I've never said this before, but please don't come home until I've finished cleaning. Please.
Jane smiled, texting back an acknowledgment. She was just reaching for her purse, to put her phone back, when it chimed again.
"What's he done now?" Patterson grinned, leaning over her shoulder to look. "Burned the house down by lightning a tea candle?"
Jane shook her head, recognizing the sound even before she read the alert; she reached instinctively into the zippered pocket of her purse. "It's just my birth control alarm. I—"
It was only when she took the small package out of its case, and saw all the little pastel-colored pills in their orderly rows, that she realized. She didn't have to take it. She wouldn't have to take it for months. A year. She could stop taking it now and she and Oscar could start trying as soon as they wanted. She ducked her head down, feeling a smile carelessly spread across her face.
"You need water or something?" Tasha asked at her hesitation. She passed her cup. "Here, if you're out."
But Jane shook her head. "No, I'm..." She looked up. "I'm fine, Tasha. I just remembered—I don't have to take it right now."
Zapata shrugged, taking her water back. "Did you switch your schedule around or something?" she wondered, turning back to her meal.
Jane shook her head. "No." She took a quick bite of her food to buy herself time. She didn't want to lie to them, but then again, what did she have to say? Sure, her and Oscar had decided, but it wasn't like they had anything to announce. It wasn't like—
"Oh my god!" Patterson jumped to her feet, her entire face lighting up with possibility. "Oh my god—really? REALLY? Are you guys actually—"
Jane forced herself to swallow before looking up. And then she couldn't help it—the excitement on Patterson's face could not be denied. Jane nodded in confirmation of Patterson's hopes, and then let herself be engulfed in the biggest hug she'd received since Anthony had been conceived. Patterson jumped up and down with joy as she held Jane, chanting, "Baby, baby, baby! Another baby! Oh, this is the best news…"
When the blonde finally let go, Jane turned and found herself in another hug. She smiled as Tasha wrapped her arms around her and held her tight, too. Jane closed her eyes, resting her chin on Tasha's shorter shoulder. She could feel Tasha's cheek against hers, her hands holding tight.
And then her voice in her ear: "I knew you were tired today for a reason. You can't slip anything by me, Doe. Never have, never will."
Jane pulled away, pretending to push Tasha off, but she couldn't stop grinning. She pulled Tasha in again, and held her tighter this time. As much as she loved Patterson, and her endless enthusiasm and love, there was something about Tasha's dry wit and sober outlook that had always meshed well with Jane. She was not the one to go to when things were bright and sunny and you wanted to pick colors for a nursery or plan a wedding, but she was invaluable in the darker times.
And Jane would always love Tasha for that.
She would always love her for the way she had looked at Oscar the first night they'd come into the FBI with their story: the way she'd stared at him long and hard, and then turned to Jane and said nothing more than, Well. At least he's got a good head of hair. All the others had been ready to lock him up, ready to call in every interrogator they knew to trap him up in his story, to catch him out in a lie, to put him away. But Tasha had been one of the few—the only, for a time—that had trusted Jane's judgment in him implicitly and believed her when she vouched for him. The others had to be brought into understanding, had to be convinced. But Tasha had been around criminals all her life, practically since the moment she'd been born; she could smell them the way a dog could smell meat. She had taken one look at Oscar and deemed him worthy, and Jane would be forever grateful to her for it. They wouldn't have gotten through all those weeks of interrogation without her quiet belief in their truth. Without Tasha, they might not even be married; they might not have Ant.
"Thank you," Jane whispered in her old partner's ear. "Tasha, thank you."
By eight PM, Weller called off the hunt for meaning in the yet-to-be-decoded tattoo, and told them all it was time to turn in for the night and head home. Jane was quietly grateful—and quietly embarrassed. She knew if she hadn't been here, the team would've toiled late into the night. In fact, they might've spent the evening at the Bureau, working right up until dawn. But she had a young family to get home to. He didn't have to, but he always took her into account, always counted her as part of the team—if he was letting one off, he'd let the rest go, too.
As the others headed back to the locker room to get their things, Jane ambled over to the elevator bank, moving slowly for a reason she couldn't quite comprehend herself. She had texted Oscar a moment ago, saying she was on her way, and while she wanted nothing more than to be home right now, she also didn't want to leave the Bureau. This always happened at the end of her short visits—she got back into the swing of things, back into that old life, and she had trouble transitioning. It was easy, once she was in the presence of her husband and son. But without them, this office started to feel like the only home she'd ever have again.
She had just hit the button for the elevator when she heard a pair of footsteps come up behind her. She turned, seeing Kurt appear by her side. She smiled reflexively, and then in surprise—he was alone. She would've expected he would continue to use the team to cloak himself from her, as he had been all day.
"Hey there," he called quietly, coming to a stop beside her.
"Hey."
She waited, but he said nothing else. For a minute, they watched the elevator before them, willing it—or not willing it?—to rise faster.
He broke the silence.
"So… I heard you guys are trying again."
Jane couldn't help but laugh, rolling her eyes. "Oh, wow. So I see nothing's changed since I left. Everyone still knows my private business, great."
"Sorry, we are the FBI. Can't help it." He caught her eye, smiling a little. "Also," he added, lowering his voice as if in confidence, "I did nearly go deaf from Patterson's shouting, so there's that, too…"
"Jesus." Jane shook her head, chuckling, just as the elevator arrived. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised, though." She stepped onto it, turning to say goodbye, but was quietly pleased when Kurt followed her on.
He hit the lobby button for both of them, and then the lift started to descend.
"I just wanted to say... Good luck. I hope—you know, I hope it works out."
Jane took his encouragement at face value, and offered him a warm smile for it. He didn't have to do this, she knew. He didn't have to get in an elevator with her, didn't have to pretend like they were still such good friends after all the time apart. But she loved that he was trying. It made her wonder if maybe all her attempts to connect with him over the past few years hadn't all been in vain.
"Thanks, Kurt," she replied. "Ant was a bit... unexpected, to say the least. So it'll be interesting to wait and see what happens this time."
"Are you hoping for a boy or a girl?"
"Hm. I hadn't thought about it, actually. But I guess… I guess I wouldn't mind either." She smiled into space, thinking of her son. "I'd love another boy, though."
"Ha! Said no mom ever."
She laughed. "What? He's a good one."
"Yeah, I know he is."
She glanced over at him, warmed by the genuine smile she could see on his face. The lift was slowing to a stop. They'd be in the lobby soon, and then out on the street, and then off on their separate ways.
"Hey, Kurt, do you... maybe want to come by for dinner sometime and see him? It's been at least a year or two, hasn't it?"
"Oh." Kurt blinked at the invitation, caught off guard. "Well, I—"
"Before you say no," she hurried to interrupt, "I'll probably invite the whole team, if that's easier. It doesn't have to just be you and us—"
He looked down as the lift shuddered to a stop. He pulled on his ear with one hand; he did that when he was nervous or embarrassed, she remembered. "Jane, that's not necessary," he said quietly.
He stepped off the lift, and she followed him. The lobby was empty save for the usual security guards at their stations.
"It's not necessary because it's not necessary, or it's not necessary because you aren't going to come either way?"
He sighed, caught. "Look, Jane—"
She was pressuring him, she knew, but she couldn't help it. He was the one that had climbed in the elevator with her, after all. He was the one who had offered her luck. She was tired of him picking and choosing the parts of her life he wanted to be a part of. She couldn't be Taylor for him, and she couldn't be that lost, nameless woman for him anymore, either. She couldn't spend hours alone with him rediscovering herself anymore. That wasn't who she was, and that wasn't who they were; he needed to accept that, and adapt. Or at least he needed to stop trying to recreate the old.
"I understand if you're uncomfortable," she continued as they headed out to the front doors. "But it would be really nice to see you for reasons other than helping with a tattoo you can't decode. It would be great to see you more frequently than every six months." The doors were feet away. She could swear his pace was quickening beside her. She grabbed lightly onto his arm before they could reach the exit. "Look. I know I can't be Taylor anymore for you, and I know that must be hard, after everything you've lost—"
He stopped walking. "Jane—"
"—but I would love it if we could actually try, as adults, to be friends again. Not you and lost-and-found Taylor or me and Agent Weller, but... Jane and Kurt." She looked up at him, hope in her eyes. "We were friends, right? Before?"
His expression softened. "Jane, of course we were friends."
She smiled a little, relieved that he could admit even that much. It was a positive sign. "Good." She squeezed his arm. "So you'll try for dinner? Just try," she stressed, when she saw him looking away. She dropped her hand and added, "Besides... Neither Oscar nor I have siblings, you know. So the only people Anthony's got for uncles are Reade and Borden." She raised her eyebrows when he turned back to her. "C'mon," she deadpanned. "You really gonna let my son be spoiled by those two? They're far too serious to be any fun. My kid's gonna grow up to be a dork who wears suits at thirteen and picks at people's brains for fun. He's going to get beat up at school. You want him to get beat up at school?"
"Well, I'm sure your husband—"
She leveled him with a flat stare. "Kurt. My husband listens to jazz music for fun. Can we please not pretend like he's the cool guy here? Come on. You're embarrassing yourself."
Kurt cracked a smile, laughing a little. "Okay, okay..."
She waited, poised for the official confirmation.
He closed his eyes and sighed.
"All right," he surrendered finally, shaking his head with a smile as he yielded to her determination. "Give me the date for dinner, tell me what I should bring, and I'll be there."
She grinned, and leaned up on her tiptoes to hug him briefly. "Thanks, Kurt. I'll call you once we settle schedules."
He nodded. "I'll look forward to it."
She watched him go, stepping out into the night with a wave, and she waved back. Even though they hadn't cracked the tattoo case for today—they might not have even come close—it still ended up feeling like a good day. She had set more wrong to rights in the last twenty-four hours than she had in years, both with Kurt and Oscar, and it made her grin, wide and full, as she stepped out onto the sidewalk and started for home.
A/N: Thanks for reading! Reviews would be much appreciated if you have thoughts! As I mentioned, I'm still wading my way through this universe, so some things are very much still a work in progress. Thank you!