Title: Afternoon Out (1/1)

A/N: Oscar re-introduces Jane to baseball. Total fluff. Enjoy! :)

"Okay, quiz me."

Oscar shook his head, stepping beside her in line as they queued up in front of the gate, tickets in hand. "Jane, it's not a test. It's a game. This is supposed to be fun," he reminded her patiently.

She ignored him, staring up at the huge facade that loomed over them. It was all stone and huge columns and gold lettering. She remembered Patterson talking to her once about the old coliseums in Rome, and she wondered if this is what they'd looked like, ages ago. It seemed silly to her, that people would put that much effort into sports.

"Quiz me," she repeated. "I want to make sure I get this right."

He drew in a breath, and then sighed loudly. She silently noted his disapproval and once again ignored it. "Fine," he muttered after a second, realizing she, as usual, was not going to give up until she got what she wanted. "Tell me: How many people are on each team?"

"Nine."

"What's the point of the game?"

"To get as many points as you can."

"And how do you do that?"

Jane ran through the description he'd given her earlier, during the subway ride down to the stadium. "Okay, so the pitcher throws the ball, and then the batter hits it or doesn't hit it—and if he does, and it's caught immediately, he's out, and he doesn't get to hit anymore. But if no one catches it, he gets to run around the bases as fast and far as he can, trying to get back to home, the base he started on, and if he does, then his team gets a point. Run," she added as an afterthought, nodding sharply, as if to make herself remember.

He smiled a little at her response, and nodded. Her habits of drilling information into herself were familiar to him still. "Good job. That's the gist of it."

But she was still thinking, still working through all the information she'd absorbed in the hour trip down to the stadium, as they shuffled forward in line, nearing the gates. "And if you miss hitting a ball, you get a strike, and you can only get…" She hesitated a moment, biting her lip, thinking. "How many strikes do you get before you're out?" she wondered, thinking aloud.

"T—" he started to say.

"Shh," she hissed, her hand shooting up to cover his mouth. She shut her eyes, thinking hard. She knew if she looked at him, he'd ruin her process again. Two or three, she thought. She couldn't remember. "Two," she said finally, not certain, dropping her hand from his face and opening her eyes.

"Three," he corrected, looking more than a little pleased.

She shook her head, and followed behind him as they took a few more steps forward in the line. "Damn," she muttered. She glanced ahead, noticed they weren't far from the ticket-takers now, and ran through the information once more in her head. She wanted to have it all down straight before they got inside. She didn't want to spend the whole game asking him questions about what was happening. She did that often enough during the rest of their time together.

"Okay," she murmured to herself, "so nine people two a team, two teams, a batter, a pitcher, and the fielders. You hit the ball, or you get struck out. Three strikes and you're out, and then you switch. If you hit the ball, you drop the bat and run counter-clockwise…"

At her side, Oscar laughed a little.

She looked up at him. "What?"

"Counter-clockwise," he repeated. "Never thought about it like that, but yeah. They do; they run counter-clockwise."

She watched him. "How did you think of it?"

He frowned a little, thinking. "Well… I don't really know, now that you ask. It was always just: run to first base, second base, third base, home." He tilted his head, giving the list another angle: "To the right, to the top, then downfield, then home."

A smile flickered at the edges of her lips as she watched him list it off. She had suspected this earlier, when he'd given her the run-down on the train, but she'd been too busy focusing on what he was saying to ask. "Did you used to play?" she wondered now.

"Oh, as a kid," he replied, shuffling forward with the line. "Mostly with friends. I was on my school's team in middle school, for a little bit. I wasn't ever very good, though."

"More fun to watch?" she guessed.

He smiled, and gestured that she should step forward; they were at the gates now. "Very fun to watch," he replied.

The stadium was already teeming with people when they made their way to the stairs and bounded up the many flights to the higher tiers of seating. Neither of them tired on the way up, and by the time they reached their landing, they'd bypassed at least forty people, and earned a couple tired and awed, Jeezes, from exhausted onlookers.

When they made it out from under the stone awnings and into the sun, Jane instinctively lifted a hand to shield her eyes before she remembered she had a hat on. Her hand dropped uselessly to her side, and she followed behind him as he led the way to their section, and row, and seats. She had felt silly, earlier today when he'd arrived at her apartment and tossed her the dark navy blue hat with the white lettering.

I don't wear hats, she'd said.

It's baseball, he'd replied, as if that settled the matter, and then he'd put it on her head.

Now, glancing around, she realized what he'd meant: she could not see one person around her that was not wearing a hat. Some didn't have the bright whiteNY emblazoned on the front, but they were in the extreme minority. She felt surrounded by navy and white—and not just the hats, but the jerseys and the coats and even the facepaint. She stared at that, hypnotized by people who would willingly mar their skin in public. But she supposed temporary pain was different than permanent ink.

"So," she said as they sat down, taking seats 14 and 15, "I guess I know who we're rooting for?"

He smiled, catching her eye, his gaze quickly skipping up to the letters stitched onto her cap. "Well, we are in New York. Generally, it's safest to cheer for the Yankees when in New York." He laughed a little, "And be grateful the Sox aren't here."

She frowned, finding her eyes immediately drawn to other peoples' feet. "What socks?"

He grinned. "Oh, so you haven't seen any brawls yet, have you?" At the frown of confusion on her face, he leaned close and whispered in her ear, "Boston."

She frowned, remembering that name from geography lessons with Patterson, but not understanding why it was relevant at this moment. "That city in Massachusetts? What about it?"

"The Sox—the Red Sox, they're from Boston—they've got this huge rivalry with New York. If they're playing against each other and it's a big game, sometimes things can get a little messy. So good thing they're not here today, or you might have to turn into an off-duty cop."

Jane remembered him using the word brawls a moment ago. She looked out at the rows and rows of seating in front of her, guessing there must be tens of thousands of people here already—and the stadium wasn't even half-full yet. "Are saying people get in fights? Actual fights—over baseball?"

"Oh, it's fairly common," he replied easily. "It's all part of the rivalry—and trust me, it can get a lot worse than brawls in the stands. It's stupid, sure, and yet it lives on."

"Why did it start?"

He blew out a breath. "Why? Well, it goes back forever. I mean, just in baseball, you've got the selling of Babe Ruth, the Curse, the Yankees winning again and again…" After a second of thought, he added, "But you could trace it all the way back to the founding of the country, really. I mean, it manifests itself best now in sports, but Boston and New York have had it out for each other ever since the pilgrims and the Boston Tea Party and the creation of the—"

Jane snorted. "Two cities got in a fight over a tea party?" She rolled her eyes at the idea. "What, did Boston not invite New York or something?" she wondered.

He stared at her for a moment, as if not comprehending as well—and then he burst out laughing.

"What?" she demanded, prickling at once. Despite all the stares and the comments the tattoos brought her, and how used to it she'd gotten, laughter was something that still rankled her.

He didn't answer at once, and every time he looked like he was about to speak, he laughed again, until she finally punched him in the shoulder and ordered, "Stoplaughing at me!"

"I'm sorry," he called out, though the smile on his face betrayed no real sorrow at all. "It's just—" He shook his head, massaging his shoulder a little. "You're so serious. You don't even know what you're talking about, and still…" He stared at her, his smile widening. "God, I love this," he whispered.

She glared at him. "You love it when I'm stupid," she surmised flatly.

"No," he corrected, "I love it when I'm smart. It's a welcome change. I gotta be honest: it's really nice being the smarter one in this relationship for once."

She rolled her eyes. "So you know the rules of baseball and the history of some stupid rivalry. I don't think that qualifies you as being smarter than me."

"At our current location, it absolutely does. I'm a genius here. You're like a two-year-old. You don't even know how many strikes it takes to get out!"

"Three! It takes three!"

"Oh, look, she's learning."

The next punch he saw coming, and he blocked before she could land it. She scowled, angry as he held her closed fist tight in his, and she started to lash out again—but he saw the next fist coming too, and caught that one as well. Fists gone and not willing to kick him in case it made a scene—she did not want to be one of those brawlers he'd talked about—she settled for glaring at him. He simply smiled back, knowing exactly what she was doing.

"Can I let go of your fists now?" he asked pleasantly after a moment.

"I don't know," Jane bit out, not taking her eyes off him. "Can you?"

Half of his mouth flickered up into a self-satisfied smirk. "Always so volatile," he murmured, and then he let go of her hands. She jerked them back to her sides, flexing her fingers. When she glanced back over at him sourly, he was watching her carefully. He was expecting another hit, she knew. Well… She bit her tongue, remembering his talk of brawls again. The last thing she wanted to do was make a scene and get them kicked out. Surely she could hold herself in check for one game.

She watched the seats fill in around them for a while, and as their row started to fill up, she got used to standing and sitting in rapid succession to let people in. Baseball fans, as it turned out, came in all sizes and shapes and with all kinds of clothes and hats and food.

It was endless, the food, so much so that she ended up making a game with him about it. In the twenty minutes they waited for the game to start, they counted ten soft pretzels and fourteen hot dogs in their section alone. Looking across the stadium, she could see women with ice cream and teenagers with popcorn and kids with… she wasn't sure what. Jane squinted at the bright pink blobs of what had to be food (at least, she hoped it was, eight-year-olds were shoving it in their mouths), but she couldn't tell what they were.

"What is that?" she asked finally, tapping Oscar on the shoulder and then directing his attention a few sections over, where a little girl was holding one of each: a blue and a pink cloud of… she didn't know what.

"What, cotton candy?" he asked, turning back to her, as if it were the most natural answer in the world. When she still looked lost, he said, "Oh, come on. Come on, don't tell me you haven't had cotton candy."

"I've never seen that before in my life," she answered. "Let alone eaten it." She frowned, watching one boy devour half of his serving in one huge, trailing bite. "What does it even taste like?"

"Pure sugar," Oscar answered with a laugh. "And food coloring."

Jane turned to him. "That's it? But… if it's just sugar and liquid, how is it so big?"

He leaned over. "Magic," he whispered in her ear, his voice so conspiratorial she couldn't help but laugh. He pulled back, wondering, "So you really haven't had it? Man, what have they been feeding you at the Bureau? Gruel?"

She laughed at the tone of fake disapproval in his voice. "Certainly not gruel, but certainly not candy, either," she replied. (Though that was a lie. Patterson kept a bag of candy in her lab and Jane had, on more than one occasion, joined the agent in dipping into her secret stash.) "Not candy like that," she amended after a moment, not wanting to tell him even the smallest lie, not with how truthful they'd been with one another recently.

"All right, that settles it."

She turned to see him on his feet.

"Where are you going?" she asked, immediately starting to rise, too. She didn't want to be left alone in this mass of people without him. Wherever he was going—she wanted to go with.

He smiled a little, as if maybe he could see that in her eyes. "I'm getting you cotton candy, obviously," he answered. "And I'll just be gone a few minutes, so just wait here." Reluctantly, she sat back down. She would rather follow after him, but she had no good excuse for wanting to except simply wanting. He was at the end of the row when he called back to her, "Hey, you want a beer or something? I'll probably grab one on my way back."

She blinked, taken aback. "We can… drink?" She glanced at her phone, checking the time. "It isn't even 2 PM."

He grinned. "Nothing more American than baseball, or alcohol. Why not do both at once?" Before she could say anything, he called out, "I'll get you something," and then bounded up the concrete steps.

By the time he got back, the game had started, the anthem had been sung (Jane didn't know the words but tried to hum along awkwardly, anxiously waiting for someone to call her out), and there was a runner on second. Their seats were so high up that it was hard to see details, but the huge televisions set up at either side of the field helped her keep up with where the ball was, and how each team was doing. She was straining to pay such close attention that she almost didn't notice it when Oscar appeared by her side. He held out a beer and a huge cloud of pink candy towards her, saying, "Be grateful for that. I had to battle three nine-year-old girls for the last pink one. Barely got away with my life."

She smiled, imagining him darting between baseball fans, little kids screaming on his heels. "Think you're in the clear?" she asked, as he settled in by her side.

He took a sip of his own drink. "Ah, let's hope so," he said. Then he sat back in his chair and they watched the game together. The first couple innings went quick, with the Yankees getting an edge on the Blue Jays early on. She ate her cotton candy—it was gone in about two minutes, deceptively delicious, it was—and they drank their beers, and talked about baseball strategy. It was a welcome respite from the other sorts of strategies they usually discussed, and despite his teasing earlier, she found she liked letting him talk, and liked listening to what he had to say. It was nice, learning from him.

It was sometime during the sixth inning, when the Blue Jays had gone all game without scoring a second run, that they finally managed to get a man to home, and Oscar burst out into cheers beside her. She turned to him, surprised—they were, after all, supposed to be cheering for the other team.

He shrugged when she asked why. "I cheer for anybody who makes a good play. And I especially like my underdogs," he added. He smiled to himself about something for a second, and then caught her eye. "You haven't been any further west than Jersey, have you?" he wondered slowly.

"No, why?"

He shook his head. "Nothing, just curious." When that was, of course, not a good enough explanation, he added, "I grew up outside Chicago. Illinois. The Cubs are my team—the underdog to beat all underdogs, and the single greatest disappointment of my life." She blinked at him, a little shocked and not knowing what to say, until he smiled and nudged her shoulder in reassurance. She smiled back, and found his hand.

"Maybe… Maybe we could go see them play sometime. Even if they prove to be a disappointment."

"Oh, they're always a disappointment," he replied genially. "But I keep cheering and hoping anyway. It's like a disease."

She smiled back, and was about to look back to the game, when he spoke again.

"But… that would be really nice," he said quietly, his voice pitched low beneath the crack of the bat and the shouts of the crowd. "I would love it if we went sometime. I'd love to show you Chicago."

Jane nodded along, and squeezed his hand. She liked the sincerity in his voice. "Again?" she teased, but he shook his head.

"Not again. You've never been there."

She blinked, quietly caught off-guard by this information, even though she wasn't sure why. She knew they'd met on the east coast, and in all their talks, he'd never mentioned them traveling west together, let alone to his home. She supposed it just surprised her, to find out that she'd never been to the place where he'd been born and raised. It made her sad to think about.

"Do you miss it?" she asked suddenly, leaning a little closer, wanting to know. She couldn't remember her home, let alone growing up there, so she had nothing to miss. But she wished she did. She wanted to know what it was like to miss something real, instead of missing simply being empty.

He tried to smile at her question, but she could see it was only a front. She waited for him to play it off, but when he spoke, it was quiet, and she knew it was the truth. "I do miss it," he said quietly. "I haven't been back since I joined up. In the fall, and in the spring, especially, I miss it a lot. I miss being by the lake, and…"

He grew quiet for a moment, lost in thought and memory, and she sat still by his side, not knowing what to say. She knew they'd met almost seven years ago while they'd both been in the military, and she knew he'd been serving for a few years before that. It could easily have been a decade or more since he'd last been home. She tried to open her mouth, tried to offer him some comfort—she knew what it was like to be without a home, didn't she?—but before she could speak, there was a roar from the crowd—someone had scored—and he jerked out of his melancholy.

"But it's nice here, too," he said quickly, squeezing her hand. Her eyes found his, and the hurried reassurance left him. She could feel it go, just as she could feel him tipping towards her, and her tipping towards him. "It's very nice here," he whispered, holding her gaze. "Especially now that you're with me."

She smiled, thinking she felt exactly the same way about him. New York had been fine before, when she'd just had the team and her detail and work, but it was utterly different now, with him. She wouldn't call it home, not yet, but she would call it more than a place to just exist, which is what it had been before, before he'd become a serious part of her life. She looked at him sitting across from her, and she struggled again to find the words—not of comfort this time, but of gratitude. She was so happy he was here, so happy he was willing to try again, despite all he'd been through and all she'd taken from him and all they'd both lost.

In the end, she couldn't think of the words, but that was okay. And they were surrounded by thousands upon thousands of people, but that didn't matter, either. There were so many people and, lost in the crowd as they were, they might as well have been alone. She bent her head to his, touched her lips to his, and let another kiss bloom between them.

He had been careful with her, since that dinner out the other month that had ended with their first kiss (or second first kiss, or even third first kiss, given their joint memory loss), and while she had appreciated how cautious he was being, she had also longed for more. And as he kissed her back now, in the middle of a crowded baseball stadium on a Sunday afternoon, she could tell he longed for it, too. She could feel the hard plastic of their seats' armrests between them, and she could tell from the way he was kissing her, from the way he was bent towards her, that if that barrier had not been between them, they would be just as close as she'd wanted, and dreamed of, and remembered.

"Now we're really going to have to make that trip to Chicago happen," he murmured when he pulled away after a few seconds.

"And why's that?" she asked, still bent close enough to him that their noses touched.

His smiled, and brushed his fingers very gently along the hard lines and soft curves of her cheek. "Because: I've always wanted to make out with a girl at Wrigley Field."

She laughed, tipping her head against his. Their forehead bumped, and they kissed once briefly, and then again. She could feel his hand tightening on the side of her neck, and she smiled, leaning in close again, wanting more too, just as the sound of thousands of moving bodies made her look up. Her hand fell from his face, onto his chest, and it instinctively clutched at his t-shirt.

"Why is everyone getting up?" Jane looked around, watching all the bodies tower above her. "Is it over?"

Oscar chuckled at her side, taking her hand off his chest, and pulling her to his feet as he got to his. "No, it's not over. I'm sure it's just the—"

Alllll right, baseball fans! It's time for the seventh-inning stretch!

"Stretch?" She glanced around, noticing people were touching their toes and stretching out their arms. She frowned. "Why are we stretching? We haven't been doing anything."

Oscar laughed, "Exactly. We've been sitting in these awful seats for two hours, drinking beer and fried food. Everyone needs to move a little bit."

She was about to protest that she hadn't had any fried food, but she supposed the cotton candy and the hot dog hadn't been much better. And he was right, moving felt good. And while it had been nice, leaning over her chair and into his, to talk and kiss and plan, parts of her were sore from the stiff seating. She was about to suggest they go for a walk around the park, and really stretch their legs, when music suddenly started filling the stadium. The announcer started counting down, and then suddenly the whole place erupted in song.

Take me out to the ballgame

Take me out with the crowd…

She stared in wonder at the people around her, surprised to see them all standing and joining in. And then she looked to him…

"You sing!" she called over the noise, laughing.

He grinned, "Not well, unfortunately."

…some peanuts and Cracker Jack

I don't care if I never get back…

She was still smiling as the song went on, for he was still singing along with the rest, and when he noticed her watching, he nudged her side.

"Come on. You know the words."

She tapped her temple and raised her eyebrows. "No memory, remember?"

"Nah," he grinned. "This song is implanted in your very core. Everyone in this country comes out of the womb knowing it. I told you—nothing more American than baseball."

"And alcohol, apparently," she shot back.

"Oh, well, that always helps!" He grabbed his beer and clinked it against hers, taking a swallow before yelling out the last lines with the rest of the crowd:

For it's one, two, three strikes, you're out!

At the old ball game…

There was a smattering of wild cheers and applause after the song finished, and she joined in with the clapping simply because she hadn't been able to with the lyrics. Oscar leaned towards her, and as if reading her mind, he said, "Don't worry. You'll be able to sing along next time."

She smiled, catching his eye. She wasn't sure if that was a promise of more, but she'd take it as such. "Okay," she allowed, as the applause died out and the crowd started to part.

Many sat back down in their seats, as she and Oscar were doing, but many more moved about, heading back to concessions or visiting with friends. He watched her watch a crowd of men surge to the exits, and then he leaned over, saying, "Last call for alcohol," and she nodded, chuckling a little in understanding. It was a hot day; she supposed she couldn't blame them.

About thirty minutes later, though, she did find a way to blame someone. Two someones, in particular.

She hadn't noticed the shouting before simply because, well, it hadn't been so bad before. And she'd been too focused on learning the game. And being with Oscar. But come the start of the eighth inning, she couldn't focus on anything but the shouting. The crowd around them had quieted down a good deal since the start of the game—numbed by sun and food and beer, no doubt—and so the woman's voice stood out even more against such a lethargic backdrop. It helped that she had a damn good pair of lungs.

"Oh, come on! Do your job, ump!" the woman screamed, as if the umpire could hear her all the way up here, while the man at bat settled in to take another hit. "That was clearly in the strike zone! Take him out!"

"See," Oscar murmured in her ear, reaching for his drink, "this is the bad part about being able to drink at sporting events." He smiled a second later, lifting the cup to his lips. "On the plus side," he added, taking a deep, final draw off his beer, "it's the good part, too. If you can't shut 'em up, drown 'em out."

Jane tried to smile, and reached for her own beer, too, when she heard another woman start shouting. This one was yelling in Spanish, but she recognized the voice at once—andwhen she recognized it, she realized she knew the first woman who had been shouting, too.

Oh, God.

She felt like someone had just poured a bucket of ice water down her back. Immediately, she shrank down in her seat, instinctively curling into Oscar even as she knew doing so only incriminated her further. Not a half hour ago, she'd been making out with him like a teenager, thinking they were safe in this stadium of fifty thousand people—

She felt another chill, and this one made her hands go numb.

They could fit the entire FBI in this stadium. Maybe the entire CIA. All of the law enforcement officials in the city could probably fit in this stadium. They could all potentially be here and see her, or worse, see him…

"Hey." Oscar frowned at her fetal stance. "What's up with you? Are you oka—"

"The screaming women," she whispered, leaning further into him. "I know them."

"What, the drunks?" He frowned when she didn't move, and instead continued to hide against him. "You do?" he asked, starting to turn around.

"Don't look!" she hissed, grabbing onto his arm. "They'll see you!"

"So?" He laughed at her worry. "They don't know my face. No one you know knows my face."

"But they know mine!" Jane hissed. "They know my face, and if they see you with me—" She groaned, burying her head into his arm. "Oh, God, we have to get out of here."

"Oh, okay, so now you're embarrassed to be seen with me?" He rolled his eyes. "Thanks."

She drove her fist into his leg, as furious at him for playing this off as a joke as she was at herself for not paying attention. "This is serious!" she hissed. "It's Tasha and Allie—you know that U.S. Marshal? If they see us—"

"So?" he interrupted. "What's it matter? You're off the clock, aren't you? What's the harm in you watching a baseball game?"

"The harm is who I'm watching it with," she snapped back. "And you know that! Why are you treating this like it's not serious?"

"Because it's not serious! What's going to happen? They see you with me and… What? They assume we're together?" He raised his eyebrows. "I'm sorry, Jane, would that not be correct?"

She shook her head, turning away. She knew what he was getting at. "It isn't about that," she muttered, and for once, she was relieved he didn't press her. She didn't want to get into it here and now—especially not with Tasha and Allie just yards away. "I don't know how to balance this yet, all right," she said quietly, finding his eye. "I don't… I don't know how to merge my different lives. I don't know how to be with you like it doesn't change everything else in my life."

"You're doing it right now," he reminded her. "We're out in public right now, and people you work with are twenty feet away—and look, nothing's changed. The world hasn't ended. We're all still alive."

"Oscar…" Her lips pressed together, and her eyes begged with him to understand. "Please, come on. You know it's more than that. You know it isn't as simple as just saying everything's okay. There's more behind this, please understand…"

He saved her the embarrassment of continuing by nodding. "Fine," he sighed finally. "Let's just go then, all right? If you're really freaked out, let's just head out, okay?"

"Wait, we… We can leave?" she breathed, her face lighting up with hope as she looked up at him. Her eyes darted to the field as another cheer went up, and a man stole around the bases. "But… the game's not over yet."

"Doesn't matter. We can leave whenever we want. It's not like they're keeping us locked in here." He grabbed her hand. "C'mon. Keep those tattoos of yours hidden, and let's sneak out."

He caught a flash of her smile just before he rose to his feet, and he grinned back, tugging her along. She pulled her cap down low, and did her best to hide her bare arms as she followed him down to the closest exit. She could still hear Tasha and Allie shouting at the umpire, and it wasn't until they were back behind the stadium seating that she managed to relax about it. She slowed to a stop, leaning against the concrete supports, and shook with laughter.

"This is ridiculous," she panted, shaking her head as she looked up at him. "You're right. What am I doing? I'm running away from my coworkers because I don't want to be seen with you? Why? For what reason besides the fact that you're hard to explain?"

He shrugged. "Hey, you tell me. You're preaching to the choir, sister."

A smile was peeking out at the corner of his mouth, and she grinned back, and then stepped forward to hug him. "Thank you," she whispered over his shoulder. "I'm sorry I freaked out. In the moment, I just didn't know what to do—"

"It's okay," he interrupted gently. His hands came up to cup her slim back. "It's okay, I get it. It would've been awkward."

She pulled back, glancing down at herself. Even in the dim light beneath the stadium, her tattoos were still prominent. "You'd think I'd be able to handle the awkward by now."

"It's different than that, though." He reached out and took her hand, carefully lacing their fingers together. "And that's okay," he added. "You and me… It's complicated, I know. Especially for you, especially with them. But we'll figure out a way to explain it. And whenever you're ready, we can… Oh, I don't know. We can all go out to dinner or something. Have a meet-and-greet."

Jane snorted at the thought. "God. Can you imagine that? You having dinner with me and the team?"

"Oh, I dream about it every night," he joked.

She smiled, and then tugged on his hand, turning them towards the exit. She held onto him as they made their way down the stairs, at a fraction of the speed they'd ascended them hours earlier.

"So," she said when they eventually reached the bottom. "What do we do now?"

He shrugged, peering out at the open streets before them. "I don't know. We've still got a few more hours in this afternoon to kill…" He grinned, catching her eye. "What's to say we go out and run into some of your other Bureau buddies, just for kicks? See how many we can spot in a day."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, shut up."

But she didn't let go of his hand, and when they finally picked a direction to walk in, she held it tight and stayed close by his side.

A/N: Thank you for reading! If you have thoughts, I'd love to hear 'em. :)