AN: this started out as an ask prompt over on Tumblr. It's kinda turned into this mission fic. I have a dozen other stories I am working on (like Bloodsport, for example, need to get on that!), so I am not sure how fast this will be updated, but hopefully y'all will enjoy it anyways. Who doesn't like Kurt, Jane, a crazy international mission and the beach? Set somewhere tentatively after 1.11. Title derived from my musical inspiration, the song by The Wombats. ;)

Greek Tragedy

"Ruin, eldest daughter of Zeus, she blinds us all, that fatal madness—she with those delicate feet of hers, never touching the earth, gliding over the heads of men to trap us all. She entangles one man, now another." — Homer, The Iliad.

Kurt Weller has had his fair share of shitty mission locations.

There was his first op, fresh out of Quantico, where he was forced to stake out a subway station for a week posing as a homeless person. There was also that one unfortunate time he and Reade spent a week in a safe house near China Town, where they were forced to eat takeout from the restaurant downstairs for every meal. They ended up with food poisoning. Kurt also remembers, clearly, the time he spent three months undercover trying to bust one of the biggest street gangs in New York City, the same op her met Tasha on. She almost shot him in the ass.

So Mykonos, Greece, the travel mecca and cosmopolitan party hub of the Aegean, is hardly a bad gig. This is especially so considering his list of things to do today consist of sitting at this beachside bar on the agencies dime while he tries to scope out their target; a well to do business man with a penchant for moonlighting as an arms dealer for a suspected terrorist group tied to the suicide bombings that took place in Paris and Brussels. This would be way outside FBI jurisdiction if it weren't for Jane's tattoos, and the joint operation with interpol just so happened to need two agents to pose as a married couple, and with their old aliases from their previous undercover missions at the ready…

He knows it shouldn't be this easy, to fall back into this role they've created in this husband and wife charade, in these characters they play, but it is. What's worse is that here, where they're on their own, where Mayfair and the team aren't the ones on the end of the coms, or watching them via security feeds like they would back at the NYO, it's all too easy to get lost in the game. Maybe it's this place, the wild atmosphere of the city around him, and the people who seem to materialize from it, or maybe it's something else. Kurt hasn't been able to shake it since they stepped off the private jet at the airstrip, him in a three piece suit, and Jane in a dress she definitely never would have worn at home.

Something about the way Jane looks at him feels different, heavier, and the weight of her eyes just as constant as the weight of the wedding ring on his finger.

Kurt glances down at the band now, spins it absentmindedly with his thumb, before turning his attention back to the quickly filling bar. Out near the water the waves crash alongside the sound of a hundred different voices, and the steady beat of the music thrums through the air, just as alive as the people who dance to it. Kostas Makris, their target, is no where to be seen though; they hadn't expected him to arrive until tomorrow, but Jane had pointed out it'd be a waste to sit in their room all night, and it's always better to be safe rather than sorry if he did show up.

Surely her suggestion stems from a purely professional standpoint, and nothing else. At least that's what Kurt keeps trying to tell himself. However, the look on her face when she'd said it suggested something else entirely.

Kurt downs the rest of his Martini with a quick toss to the back of his throat, and the liquor burns on the way down, but he's glad. Clear your head, Weller.

He just so happens to glance back toward the hotel, back toward the sweeping steps, and all hopes of clearing his head dissipate into thin air, swallowed up by the fading light of the sunset and the too-loud music that beats in time with the heart that's starting to hammer in his chest. The bar tender in front of him follows Kurt's all but open mouthed stare up the stairs of the resort that sprawl out toward the beach it's nestled on, to the woman descending them.

If it weren't for Jane's tattoos, he probably wouldn't have recognized her. The sheer shawl wrapped around her waist, her cover up, does little to cover much of anything. It floats around her long legs as she walks, hanging low on her hips, and the black one-piece swimsuit she's wearing is far from modest. There's literally no back to it besides the halter top holding it around her neck, and it dips so low that it falls below the hexagon tattoo at her spine, revealing skin Kurt's sure he's only ever seen in pictures. The sides of the swimsuit are cut out, and the v at the front of it appears to be endless. Jane meets Kurt's eyes from across the expanse of the space between them, and he can feel it again, that heavy, impossible weight of her green eyes burning into him.

"Would you like another?" The young bartender asks, gesturing to Kurt's empty glass with a grin. "I think you might need it."

"Yeah," Kurt agrees, nodding, his eyes never leaving Jane's, "I think I might."

Jane approaches through the throng of people, graceful, calculated, far more confident in herself here amongst strangers than he's ever seen her amongst friends at home. There's something dangerous about the way she moves as she cuts through the crowd, something lethal, and Kurt isn't ever sure in these moments who he's seeing; the assassin she's posing as, or the real woman he still knows so little about. The sea of bodies at the bar parts for her easily, and Jane doesn't hesitate as she claims her seat beside Kurt, reaching for his hand and threading her fingers through his once she's settled on her barstool. Before he can say anything she pulls his hand up in front of her, admiring the wedding band there, and when she turns to him she has a smile on her face.

"James."

Jane grins at the name, his fake name, and the way she says it is so sultry, so brazen, so perfectly in character it almost unsettles him. The way she looks at him, openly and without reservation, almost unsettles him. It almost makes him want to break cover just so he can ask the question that's tortured him ever since they arrived on the island.

Is it really an act, or is it something else?

She raises his hand to her lips, kissing the ring squarely, her mouth lingering there for just a moment before lowering both their hands back to the bar. She notes his silence, his smoldering blue eyes, and her smile widens. She's seems satisfied, as if she knows exactly what she's doing, as if she intended it.

"Gwen."

Even as Kurt replies, all he can think about is how much he'd like her mouth on his instead. All he can think about is how much he'd like to kiss that smug smile right off her face.

He doesn't though, because despite the fact that they needed to convince the outside world of the roles they were playing, the unspoken agreement between them only necessitated for minimum expressions of affection. What he'd like to do to her definitely doesn't fall in those parameters. Kissing her now, kissing her senseless like he wants—as in character as it would have been for the notoriously promiscuous James Harding—is the last thing Kurt Weller needs to do.

Instead Kurt smiles back, turning toward her as reaches down between them and grabs the stool she's sitting on. Without warning he jerks it forward, and Jane lets out a small noise of surprise, clutching his hand tighter when she almost tumbles into his lap. Kurt laughs when the wide-eyed look on her face quickly becomes murderous, but with his end result achieved he doesn't mind that she's glaring daggers at him. She's trapped between the V of his legs and the bar, and he slides his arm around her waist, waving to the waiter with his free hand. He tries, and fails, not to think about just how warm her bare skin feels against his fingers.

"For the missus?" The bartender grins at them, towel over his shoulder, gesturing to the assortment of alcohol towering on the wall behind him.

Kurt's pleasantly surprised when Jane relaxes, her initial surprise dissipating, and she adjusts herself in her seat, leaning back against him, bracing against his chest. Kurt can't help but notice just how perfectly she fits there, as if she were always meant to, and he has to swallow the overwhelming urge to touch her more than he already is. It would be so easy to lean forward and press a kiss to the back of her neck. It would be so easy to wrap both of his arms around her waist, to slide his hands between legs…

Jesus christ, Weller. Get a grip on yourself.

That's the problem, really, with all of this. It's too easy. Being here with her like this, mission or not, is all too easy. And how is that even possible, when everything between them is so incredibly complicated?

"Jeffersons, please, if you have it," Jane tells the bartender, "and on the rocks—it's a little warm out here."

"Wonder why?" Kurt leans forward, murmuring more to himself than anything, but he's in her ear when he says it. He throws more than enough euros on the bar-top, and wonders briefly how often the FBI has to explain expenditures like this when adjusting the budget. "Martini, dirty." Kurt adds, and the bartender nods, eyeing them both with a grin before turning to make their drinks.

"Seen our friend?" Jane asks, and Kurt's blessedly relieved that the topic at hand has turned to their business, giving him something else to think about besides how close he is to crossing all the lines he promised he wouldn't. He shakes his head no, considering the crowd at the bar, and then his blue eyes travel to the equally blue waves crashing along the beach scattered with people.

There's a separate sea of bodies besides the Aegean tonight, the kind that wear red soled heels and suits with names he probably can't pronounce, amongst other items and accessories that probably cost more than his yearly salary. Thanks to the half-dressed women encrusted in jewels of all sorts, the flashy men with their expensive imported cars, in combination with the excess of liquor, it's easy to see that the resort-goers are a very specific group of people. They're the kind of individuals have more money than propriety or sense.

Which is exactly why a man like Kostas Makris uses a place like this for his business deals. According to the interpol agents they've worked with so far on this case, money can buy almost anything in Mykonos—privacy included. Here at the Mykonos Grand Hotel And Resort in particular, where Makris just so happens to be a major benefactor, no one blinks an eye at his questionable friendships or practices, and most importantly no one asks any questions when people start disappearing.

There's also some benefit in the unpredictable patterns of the people here, and it actually works in Kurt and Jane's favor that nothing is too outlandish or strange in this place—though mostly it works for Jane. Given the attire for a beachside resort, they'd decided to forgo trying to hide her tattoos. It would've been impossible at best, and so Jane's tattoos remains mostly unmodified, save for temporarily covering his name across her back with a blacked out hexagon to match the one on her lower back. Kurt stares at that space between her shoulder blades now, and even though he can't really see his name, he still does.

"He left South Africa on time according to the flight manifest," Kurt says quietly after the bartender delivers their drinks, his eyes traveling to the tattoo at the back of her left bicep, the one that led them here. It's a series of numbers hidden amongst the ruins of Greek columns, coordinates that lined up with Makris' movements over the last two years. "He should be here by tomorrow evening, as long as his connecting flight in Dubai isn't delayed."

"And we still don't know who he's meeting?" Jane asks, sipping her drink and crossing her legs. The thrum of the music and the dim evening light help to to hide their conversation from passing ears and eyes.

"Not yet," Kurt frowns, martini in hand, but he doesn't drink it yet. "It's the only thing that's off about this, the fact that there's not a name for his buyer. Makris might be a loose canon with his wallet, but not when it comes to his weapons. He crosses his t's and dots his i's. Borden said he's the kind of guy who likes control—"

"—so it's hard to imagine he'd go into a business transaction like this completely blind." Jane finishes Kurt's thought, and this time she's the one frowning. She tilts her head to the side, catches Kurt's gaze as she rests her head against his shoulder. "It could be a trap, you know. He might realize someone's on to him." She adds quietly, seriously, searching his face.

"I've considered that," Kurt finally raises his drink to his lips, taking a long draw on it, savoring the bite of the gin. He sets it back down beside her bourbon, and then peers down at her, thinking about the dossier he's got memorized in his head about the man their trying to incriminate, but he's also thinking about the way Jane's eyes seemed to be framed by the dark waves of hair around her face.

"We play it safe," Jane smooths a reassuring hand along Kurt's arm, sensing his unease, "we keep our cover and hope we get a chance to bug his hotel room. If we can do that, we can get the evidence interpol needs to arrest him."

Kurt wants to tell her that there's nothing safe about what they're doing, that he sometimes regrets having agreed to do this mission with so many unknown variables, not only with the criminals they're dealing with, but for Jane too. She's so confident that they'll succeed, so sure of him and her together, but he can't help but wonder if she's thought about the consequences if things were to go wrong. There's still so much they don't know about her past, or the people who might have been in it. If this whole thing ended up being a trap, a ruse diverged by Makris—or worse, someone who wanted to target her—Kurt doesn't want to think about what will happen if he can't keep her safe.

"James? Hey, you ok?"

Kurt blinks at the sound of Jane's voice, at the sound of the name he forget's is his, and he realizes she's still got her head against his shoulder, that she's still frowning, but this time for different reasons. Kurt forces a crooked grin, tries to mask his anxiety from her by doing so, but he knows it's too little too late. He can tell by the way she watches him, by the worry at the corners of her eyes, and in the line of her mouth as her lips press together, that she already sees what he's doing to himself. He's never been very good at hiding anything from her.

"I'm fine, promise."

It's a lie though, and it's not just a lie for the moment, but for everything else too. He hasn't been fine for a long time now. Not since they found her in Times Square, not since he saw that scar on her neck, not since they almost died in that goddamn plane, and not since she left him wondering on that goddamn park bench back in New York City all those weeks ago. They still haven't talked about that, about that kiss, or what exactly they both meant when they'd decided things were too complicated.

He resists the urge to have that conversation now, knowing full well this isn't the time, or the place.

"You sure?" She presses, eyes narrowed, not buying it.

"Positive." Kurt grabs her hand, squeezing it, all while the blood rushes to his head.

She's silent for a second, and Kurt thinks she might just try to call him on his bluff, to press the issue—that she might try to argue with him. But she doesn't.

"Ok," Jane acquiesces, but her eyes give away her reluctance.

Part of him dreads the day she does choses to fight his continued silence, while another part of him desperately wishes she would.

Jane finishes her first bourbon, then a second, and then she suggests they head back to the room for the night instead, and Kurt agrees. He knocks back his fourth martin without flinching. It isn't until Jane pulls away from him that he realizes just how comfortable he's become, sitting here with her, pretending. Now, watching her stand, watching her spin and reach a hand out to him in the soft nighttime shadows, he can't help but feel the absence of her body against his like a gaping hole. The warmth of where she'd rested against his chest is replaced by a chilling reminder that despite the rings on their fingers, the name they are sharing, none of it's real.

Kurt has to try and remind himself the entire walk back to the hotel room—even though she's hanging on his arm, laughing at him, smiling so big and so bright—that she isn't really his.

AN: lemme know what you think in the reviewsssss! Thanks for reading lovelies. xo