Author's Note: Ahoy, smut ahead. I've changed the rating on this to M. This chapter is NSFW.

You've been warned. And yet you're still reading. So naughty!


They cracked a tattoo on Friday. Or rather, Patterson's database did, using the new information they'd gotten from Roman's drive. It had led them to a DA who had systematically destroyed evidence—and silenced several witnesses—that proved a Senator had been rewarding generous campaign donors with "gifts" of underage girls.

The girls involved were barely younger than Avery, and Remi was filled with anger and disgust at a political system that enabled such corruption to occur. This was what she'd been fighting with Shepherd.

This was why she had to figure out how to salvage this mission, even with Phase Two now off the table.

Neither Remi nor Weller were cleared for field work yet, so another team went out to make the arrests. It went fairly smoothly, but she didn't really relax until they were all back at the NYO and the guilty parties were in custody.

She didn't know these agents. She'd researched Weller's team thoroughly when they were planning this mission, but Reade had stayed in the office today, and with Tasha gone and Weller still recuperating, there was no one left to head up the CIRG team. These new agents were an unknown quantity, and she was going to have to take time to check up on each one of them. She couldn't afford to overlook anyone who might have connections to Orion.

It was beyond frustrating to be stuck in the NYO while an FBI team was out in the field. Only the fact that Weller had been seething with impatience all day, too, made such inactivity tolerable. She felt an odd camaraderie with him that she chalked up to their unbearably intimate living arrangements. A situation that was making it almost impossible to slip away and determine her next course of action.

She'd snuck out on the pretext of picking up coffee and donuts for the team and purchased a burner phone that she'd secreted away in the apartment. But her messages to Hobbes had gone unanswered, and although she'd found nothing in the FBI database about him, she worried that he was gone too. She knew that the bulk of Shepherd's forces had escaped arrest, but without Shepherd or her or Roman or Oscar or Markos, or even Nigel or Parker… who was left to take charge? She would have to figure out how to contact the others, reorganize them and get them back on track.

But what that meant exactly, she still didn't know. Mayfair was gone. So were Pellington and Hirst. Reade was in charge of the NYO. She didn't recall anything too damning about him in the intel they'd assembled on the team. Could he be trusted to lead the FBI as they had thought Weller could? If not, he'd have to go, but not yet. Not until Weller was able to take over again. She had no sway over Reade as she did Weller, so she would have to tread carefully if he remained.

But she had to admit, as she watched the team wrap up the case, that it still seemed as if her judgment had been solid. For all the corruption that she was certain still lurked in the FBI, this team seemed to have the integrity she'd hoped when they had first planned this mission. Because ultimately no outside army would ever be able to rout out Orion and the rest of the tentacles that snaked through the tops of all the government intelligence agencies. They could take out people in positions of power, but more would always rise to take their place. That was why she'd needed to be inside the FBI, to steer them into cleaning up their own house, from within the confines of the legal process.

"You ready to go?" asked Weller, stopping beside her, his hand resting familiarly on her lower back. "I'm starving."

She nodded and fell into step beside him. "How was your check-up?" she asked. He'd gone down to see the FBI doctor during a break in the action that afternoon.

"Still can't go into the field. But I can stop the pain meds and get more exercise, as long as I don't overdo it." His grin was so broad she couldn't help but return it.

She was still frustrated by being out of the field, but her doctors wanted another week of monitoring at the NYO before they cleared her.

"And more importantly," Weller continued, jabbing the elevator button, "I can finally have a beer."

"And pizza," she said. "With pepperoni."

Weller turned toward her, a funny expression on his face. "Not eating vegan anymore?"

Jane had been vegan? Remi resisted the urge to roll her eyes. That was taking the whole undercover thing too damn far. But at least that explained all the vegetable soups and meatless Indian dishes Patterson had brought her while they'd been out.

"I'm, uh, taking a break. The doctor didn't want me to limit my diet until they figure out…"

"Right." Weller nodded, taking her hand as they stepped into the elevator.

She'd figured out quickly that any mention of her medical "condition" freaked him out and made it easy to deflect the conversation.

He squeezed her hand gently in his. "Then beer and pizza it is."

They ate on the sofa, in front of the television, tuned to a hockey game that held Weller's attention far more than hers. She'd downed two beers with her pizza, then moved on to the bottle of wine from the counter in the kitchen. It had been opened at some point, weeks ago now, but she wasn't drinking for flavor at this point. She'd gulped half the glass and refilled it before she left the kitchen, returning to the sofa beside him.

"There's more beer in the fridge," he said, when he saw the glass she held.

"This is fine," she said.

He'd stretched his arm across the back of the sofa when she sat down, and he curled it around her shoulders now. She scooted closer, as she knew he expected her to, and sipped her wine while he watched the game, too conscious of the tips of his fingers tracing a pattern along her upper arm to focus on the screen.

She leaned forward to place her empty glass on the table, and when she straightened, she found he'd leaned forward, too. And it just felt natural that as she sat back, he shifted his weight toward her, and their lips met in the middle.

This wasn't like the soft, chaste kisses they'd exchanged over the past few days, or even the softer, deeper kisses in the half-awake early morning light. This kiss was charged, heated with the promise of things to come.

And it was both better and worse than she'd expected, because there was a sense of familiarity, of coming home that she hadn't anticipated. Somewhere inside was the realization that she'd done this before—and even worse, that she wanted to do it again.

She deliberately deepened the kiss. She wanted to get through this before the wine buzz wore off. It wasn't the first time she'd used sex to forget who or where she was. She didn't want to think. She wanted to feel hot and frantic, to focus only on how she felt.

Only Weller refused to be rushed. His lips moved slowly against hers as though she were a dessert he wanted to savor. One hand slid slowly up into her hair, his thumb caressing gentle circles on the skin behind her ear. He reclined slowly against the back of the sofa, pulling her with him with a palm pressed to her spine.

She put her hands on his shoulders, careful not to allow herself to lean against his incision. Hoping that leaving a little bit of space between them might help her to retain some sense of perspective.

It didn't help. She told herself the dizzy feeling was just the wine, and then decided it was better to stop thinking altogether. Because even if her brain wasn't wholly on board with this, it was more than clear that her body was.

She allowed her eyes to drift shut and just feel. The way her mouth opened helplessly against his, inviting him in, his tongue tangling with hers. The way his hand stroked the knobs of her spine, then curled around the back of her hip, pulling her closer to him.

He tugged at the back of her shirt, untucking it from her pants, and then his hand resumed its leisurely path up her spine, this time with no fabric to dull the electricity that seemed to arc beneath his fingertips wherever he touched her skin.

She made a tiny noise in the back of her throat, and the hand in her hair pulled her even closer, his mouth more demanding on hers. Or maybe it was she who was demanding. She wasn't entirely sure anymore.

His fingers drifted around to her front, fingertips trailing a scorching pass across her ribs until he could cup her breast through the fabric of her bra. She arched into his touch, and he stroked his thumb, slowly and deliberately, across her nipple.

She tried to retaliate, trailing her fingers down his chest to the bulge straining at the front of his jeans, but he caught her hand in his.

"We should move this to the bedroom," he murmured, lifting his lips only far enough that they still brushed against hers when he spoke.

But she didn't want to stand up and acknowledge what was going to happen. It was easier here, where she could just pretend it was an alcohol-fueled moment of weakness. So she leaned away, just far enough to pull her shirt over her head, followed a moment later by the sports bra she had on underneath.

She watched with satisfaction as his gaze grew hazy with desire, and his hands moved slowly to trace the patterns on her skin from her waist, across her ribs, to tease her with the most agonizingly light brushes across her nipples.

She tried to put her hands over his, to urge him on, but he caught her hand in his, tugging her toward him until she raised up on her knee and he could press his lips in the valley between her breasts.

She made a small, frustrated noise, and felt the gust of his chuckle against her too-hot skin as he took his time, nuzzling her and placing soft, damp kisses across her breasts, everywhere except the nipples that were aching for his touch. And then he turned his head slightly, and took her nipple into his mouth, sending a jolt of electricity through her that she felt all the way to her core. He caressed her with lips and tongue and teeth until she was clutching at the back of his head with one hand and bracing herself against the back of the sofa with the other.

And no matter how she tried to hurry him, to satisfy the fire that he'd lit inside of her, he refused to rush, moving unhurriedly to pay homage across every bit of her exposed skin, pausing to pay special attention to extra sensitive spots even she hadn't known were there.

She reached for the hem of his shirt, trying to pull it up so she could touch his skin, and her fingertips brushed over the fabric of the bandage, smaller than it had been, but still covering a large portion of his stomach. She drew back then, not wanting to hurt him. "Off," she mumbled, tugging at his shirt.

He obliged, pulling it over his head, and shuddered as her hands traced his chest.

Their remaining clothing was shed in short order, but even then, his hands were slow and unhurried, touches that brought her close but held back what she needed most.

She pushed him down, flat on the sofa, so she could straddle him, but his hands resumed their torments, quickly stealing away the illusion of control that being on top gave her, as she reached down to guide him inside.

They exhaled together as she sank down on him, until they were joined as close as they could be.

She tried to move, but he gripped her hip in his hand, holding her still. With his other hand, he reached up to brush her hair away from her face, tucking an errant curl behind her ear.

"I love you," he said softly.

And she froze. Because this wasn't mindless sex anymore. He was making love to her, and she—she—

She didn't know what she was doing anymore.

So she leaned down and pressed her lips against his. Because things made the most sense when they weren't talking or thinking.

And because she couldn't bear to lie to him.

His grip on her hip loosened, so she could move against him, could set the pace she needed to give her the oblivion she craved.

She could tell when he got close, and knew that he was holding back, to make sure that she reached the peak first. And she felt suddenly angry then, that he was being so careful with her when he should just be using her as she was using him. She used her body to urge his on, tightening her muscles around him, driving him until she felt him shuddering beneath her, and only then gave in to her own satisfaction.

She sagged back onto her arms, rather than collapsing forward on his chest. She told herself it was to avoid putting any pressure on his injury, but it also prevented him from holding her. It seemed somewhat pointless to avoid that final intimacy, but drawing a line somewhere in her mind that she would not cross made her feel infinitesimally better.

She shivered, as much from the perspiration cooling on her skin as from the gentle circles his hand was tracing on her thigh.

"Now can we go to bed?" he asked, a teasing tone to his sexy grumble as he smiled up at her.

And she couldn't help herself from smiling back. His lightness restored a bit of the equilibrium she'd lost. It was just sex. Between two consenting adults. Who were married, for heaven's sake.

She couldn't allow herself to see it as anything more than that.

# # #

"So we still don't know where Blake Crawford is," Remi said flatly, staring at the collage of data arrayed on the screens in Patterson's lab.

"No," said the Patterson. "Not yet. But we will."

"We need to build the same type of case against her that we did with her father," said Reade. "Right now we don't have any evidence that she was involved with his plans."

"And we don't have Roman on the inside anymore, helping us to gather intel." There was a sad look in Patterson's eye that Remi chalked up to the shortage of intel. In the brief period of time Roman had spent with the FBI, he'd spent most of it locked up in a cell by the FBI. In her experience, no one felt sentimental about the death of a prisoner.

"She killed Roman." Remi crossed her arms over her chest.

"We don't have any proof, Jane," said Weller gently. "We have no witnesses and no murder weapon."

"You have her cell phone arriving at the scene of the crime, then departing minutes before I arrived," Remi said coldly. "There was no one else present when I arrived, and I didn't pass any other cars on the road in." She'd read the report Jane had submitted very carefully. On this point, she and her forgotten self were in complete agreement: Blake Crawford had somehow discovered Roman's deception and had put a bullet in his stomach in retribution.

Patterson and Reade exchanged glances. "We can't arrest her on that alone," said Reade. "Any judge would throw the charge right out. We need to find something else, some evidence that she was part of her father's plans."

Remi said nothing. Blake's fate was sealed as far as Remi was concerned. Yes, her father's empire would be dismantled. But Blake herself wasn't going to be given any opportunity to defend herself in court. Remi was going to kill her first, just as she had Hank. People like the Crawfords didn't deserve the chance to go free. She would wait until the FBI found Blake, and then she would take care of the matter herself.

Weller touched her back gently, and she realized the briefing was over. She nodded without making eye contact and escaped as quickly as she could out into the bullpen. He didn't follow, turning back to ask Patterson a question.

She dropped into the chair in front of the workstation she had claimed as her own, impatient to get back to her investigation. It had been a relief to come back to the NYO this morning. Here things made sense to her. Or at least, they made more sense than being alone with Weller did.

She stared unseeingly at the monitor in front of her. It wasn't that the weekend had been awful. The opposite really. They'd spent most of their time in bed. Partly because Weller was still recovering, and his first full week in the office had tired him out more than he would admit. But also because… they hadn't wanted to get out of bed. Weller, she corrected herself. Weller hadn't wanted to get out of bed. And Remi had to maintain her cover. And so…

Part of her wished that the sex had been bad, a chore that she had to endure to remind herself that sacrifices were necessary in pursuit of greater goals. It would be so much easier that way.

But it wasn't. Weller was a patient and generous lover, which would have been good without anything else. But there was another level she didn't know how to resist. It was scary how well he knew her body. He knew better than she did what turned her on, where her skin was most sensitive, which touch would send her over the edge.

And that wasn't even the worst part. In her experience, sex was fast and furious, a way to blow off steam during too-brief moments of downtime. Satisfaction yes, but once the goal was achieved, you moved on. Sex with Weller was… different. Endless, languid caresses that continued long after desire had been sated. She wasn't used to sex like this, slow and leisurely, as though the rest of the world had ceased to exist. Drowsy mornings and lazy afternoons until only the grumbling of stomachs could rouse them from their bed. Sleeping tangled up in each other.

Remi was not a cuddler. She was a light sleeper, and she didn't like to be touched while she was sleeping. Oscar had always made fun of the way she pushed him away after sex so she could sleep face-down on the other side of the bed. But with Weller…. Even if she consciously moved away from him as she dozed off, she always woke up curled around him. Holding on to him, the same way he never let go of her.

And it was that, more than the flashes of memory that made no sense, that made her wonder her lost years had been like. Had she really abandoned everything—her family, her convictions—for this?

It was frighteningly easy to see how it might have been so.

She gave her head a hard shake. Whatever had happened before was irrelevant. She was here now, and she had a mission to complete. She reached for the keyboard and went back to work.