Author's Note: I've always felt a bit hesitant about writing early season 1 Jeller smut, because the show is so fast-paced. As it turns out, Jane has only been working with the team for about two weeks when she kisses Kurt at the end of 1x10, because they solve a tattoo per day and then you have to factor in weekends... Anyway. It feels like too fast to write them hooking up at the end of 1x05, for example. But that doesn't mean they can't think about it. :D This one is a 1x05 tag from Kurt's point of view. Hope you guys enjoy it!

He was driving too fast.

Kurt made himself ease off the accelerator as he left Jane's street, hoping the agents posted outside her building would assume he and Jane had argued before he'd left. The truth was completely different, and now his emotions were a confused mess.

What had he been thinking today? His response to Jane's panic attack earlier had been too strong, too intense, and now she'd taken his interest as more than friendship. He was screwing up everything about this reconnection with Taylor, and he couldn't pinpoint the moment it had all become tangled into a ball of need, and fear, and hope.

Jane. Not Taylor.

Last night at dinner, she'd fled from the table and refused to talk to him about it, darting into the elevator the moment it arrived and hitting the button to close the doors, as though she couldn't stand to be there a second longer. Up until the next day, he'd thought it was Sarah's enthusiasm or Sawyer's questions that had spooked Jane, but in the trailer outside the MWA building, she'd told him, I see the way you look at me, and I don't know how to be this person that you lost. And later, back at the NYO, she'd added, It feels like you're waiting for me to remember something that is never going to come.

It was almost as though she didn't want to be Taylor, as though she was resistant to her past, and that had put him on edge. When he'd told her being Taylor wasn't the answer to all her problems, but it was a starting point, she'd still seemed troubled, but they'd been interrupted by Agent Knox and his team. As Knox had described his team's actions over comms—going down a set of stairs and discovering a room with beds—something in Jane's memory had clicked into place, and she'd fled the room.

He'd found her in the hallway, leaning against the wall and staring into space in complete distress, which only increased as she'd related what she'd remembered: being led by a man down a flight of stairs, into a room filled with children. She hadn't said more, and he hadn't wanted to push as her panic had increased, but from her horrified expression, the kids hadn't been well cared for in comfortable surroundings.

Helplessness and guilt had crashed into him at the knowledge that she had likely been a trafficked child, held captive for some sick purpose. He'd let her be taken from his care; he'd failed her. Kurt had needed her to know that he wouldn't let her down again, that he'd protect her no matter what, and before the intention was even fully formed in his mind, he'd taken her hand and pressed it against his own pounding heart. As her trembling had slowed, her sobs calming a little, he'd spoken words of reassurance directly from his soul. Do you feel that? I'm here. I'm right here with you. You're okay. Keep breathing, Jane. You're okay. Just keep breathing.

She'd almost begun breathing normally, her composure anchored to him and the beat of his heart, her tearful gaze locked on his, when Reade had cut in on them. The interruption, though quiet and tactful, had felt like an intrusion, almost a violation, and he'd wanted to send Reade packing with harsh words. As he'd reluctantly released Jane's hand from his hold against his chest, she'd broken away and stumbled off down the hall, presumably to the privacy of the restroom to finish processing what she'd remembered.

After they'd secured the radioactive isotope, and the CIA had dragged off the bomb maker, Kurt had still been unable to relax. The way Carter had been eyeing Jane had made him very uneasy, and he'd offered her a ride home, wanting to check neither the CIA nor any more of Jane's unknown 'friends' were lying in wait at her new safehouse.

In retrospect, that had been a mistake. The protective detail had turned on one lamp when they'd reported for duty and done their own sweep, half an hour before. The dim lighting had made the atmosphere feel intimate as Jane had closed the door behind them. He'd meant to do a quick check of the rooms and leave, but couldn't help but ask her, if indirectly, if she was okay. When she'd apologised for 'losing it', he'd told her 'it happens', then made it halfway towards the door—before realising only a complete asshole would leave without addressing the matter properly.

And after that, everything had crashed down, the way he'd dreaded it would. His fears that she didn't want to reclaim her identity, that she might feel uncomfortable with him after remembering something he'd allowed to happen to her…all of that had led to him telling her he shouldn't have put her in a situation where there had been so many expectations upon her. And then that he should never have let them take her. His barely breathed apology had felt just like his words in the hallway as he'd comforted her—ripped from the roots of his soul.

This time, he'd been the one near tears as she'd told him, with compassion and sincerity, that it wasn't his fault. The damaged little boy inside him had craved the absolution of his childhood friend, even as the man he'd become warned him this moment was getting too deep, too charged with emotions his childhood self couldn't have comprehended.

And Jane... Fuck.

Impulsively, Kurt turned off the street into a darkened back alley. He'd noticed a couple of kids throwing bricks at the security camera here a couple of nights ago, and was pretty sure he'd seen them hit their target, meaning he could shut off the engine and sit in the darkened stillness, completely unobserved.

If not for his houseguests, he would have gone straight home to think this through, but in his current state, he didn't think he could field Sarah's questions about his day or Sawyer's talk about school. He needed time to himself to process this.

He didn't know how to feel.

Only that was a lie—he knew exactly how he felt, but he also knew it was irresponsible and wrong.

Jane had… Goddamn it. Groaning softly, he dropped his head down to the steering wheel, pressing his forehead against the cool surface.

He'd barely gotten away from her before his hard-on had begun to push against the front of his pants. At least it was dark outside, and Jane's detail wouldn't have noticed anything untoward—not at the speed he'd been moving, at least.

You said Taylor was my starting point. I think you're wrong.

Kurt pressed the heel of his hand down against his cock, willing his need away. Not that he expected it to work, but it would have been appreciated.

Jane had gently taken his hand in both of hers and pressed it to her heart, echoing the way he'd brought hers to his own chest earlier that day. Her touch had been less urgent than his, her hand keeping his in place only symbolic. Even so, he hadn't been able to stop himself from pressing his palm there more firmly, the strong, rhythmic beat of her heart a balm for the guilt roiling within him. The tactile sensation distracted him from her words, until she murmured something that tilted his world.

You. You're my starting point.

He could have hung on, continued the conversation, made sure she knew he cherished her trust, before he'd said goodnight. After all, when she'd been crying, he'd done this to her. She'd obviously been seeking to offer the same kind of comfort. But this was so much more intimate—the edge of his hand brushing the slope of her breast, the dimly lit room, the low likelihood of interruptions…

Had his reaction been what turned her mind towards desire, or had her gaze become heated because she'd already wanted him? He didn't know, but when he remembered the way her attention had drifted down to his lips for a moment, as though she couldn't help but think about kissing him…

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He'd felt himself losing control, the look in her eyes making it impossible to keep his denial in place. He wanted Jane, and had since the night he'd met her. He wanted someone he'd spent twenty-five years remembering as a lost sister, as family. And that was why he'd turned his back on a beautiful woman who'd trusted him enough to bare her emotions to him, leaving her hanging with nothing more than a 'see you tomorrow' as curt as his name.

He'd hurt her feelings. He must have. But what was the alternative—to let her kiss him? He would have pinned her to the wall and—

Don't even go there.

But as he adjusted his uncomfortably tight pants, trying to ease the pressure, he already knew further denial was a lost cause. This wasn't going to go away if he just ignored it. Maybe he could purge the idea from his system by indulging it. Just this once.

His cock grew harder, even as he tried to talk himself out of it. You want to jerk off over an emotionally vulnerable woman you're supposed to be working with? The victim in the biggest case you've ever worked? That's just fucking wrong, Weller.

Not that his body seemed to care. In fact, the taboo was just making his need worse. Groaning with conflicted surrender, he pulled a package of tissues from the glove box and yanked one free.

This was a premeditated act, now. By making sure he had a tissue handy for the clean-up, he was actively planning to jerk off, and when Jane filled his fantasies, he wouldn't even be able to claim to himself that it was an accident.

But he couldn't exactly walk into his apartment in this condition, not with his sister and nephew there. And every time he thought he was calming down, he remembered Jane's upturned face, the way she'd swayed forward just a fraction before he'd made himself step back. And he was right back where he started again.

Oh, sure, make out like it's all about the physical stuff. You want to get off to thoughts of Jane. You know how hard it'll make you come.

He was ashamed of himself even as he unzipped his pants and freed his aching cock from the zipper, and yet he couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so hard to his own touch. Ignoring the disparaging side of himself, and the uncomfortable truth it was pointing out, Kurt used his own arousal to lubricate his shaft, gritting his teeth to contain a groan. This wouldn't take long.

Had Jane become as turned on as he had by the moment they'd shared? Was she, even now, using her hand or a toy to give herself pleasure? The thought of her calling out his name as she climaxed made his pulse pound through his cock, and he quickened his pace, tightening his grip.

He was helpless to stop himself now, remembering her hand on his face the first night they'd met. The many pictures Patterson had taken of her tattooed skin, and the way his name on her back stood out like a label. Her small smile as she'd ducked out of his reach when they'd sparred in the gym, and the determination in her face as she'd hit back. How she tucked her hair behind her ear as she read through paperwork, revealing the bird tattoo on her neck. The way she complemented him in the field, as though they'd always been meant to be partnered together, whether with handguns or assault weapons.

And her eyes. Oh, fuck, those eyes would be the end of him. Especially when she looked at him like that.

You're my starting point.

Kurt let his head drop back against his seat and spilled into the tissue, her name breathlessly escaping his lips as the pleasure crested. "Jane…" With every strong pulse of his orgasm, he stroked himself firmly, prolonging the sensation for as long as he could. Oh, fuck, that feels good…

When it was over, reality setting back in, he cursed under his breath and fastened his pants, trying not to think about what he'd just done. Or how it would return to his mind as soon as he laid eyes on Jane tomorrow.

You screwed up, Weller.

At least this night couldn't get any more complicated, he mused, as he started the car and drove the last couple of minutes back to his apartment building. Leaving his car in the underground parking lot, he took the elevator up to his floor, putting Jane to the back of his mind as best he could.

Thirty seconds after walking into his apartment, he walked straight back out again, his conflicted feelings over Jane forgotten as rage inflamed his senses.

How dare Sarah bring that bastard into my apartment without consulting me first?

Again, he was driving too fast, and again, he had to make himself slow down as he turned into a busier street. When his furious torrent of thoughts had run their course, resentment, anger and stubborn pride following well-worn channels through his mind, he realised this was the second time he'd driven past Jane's street since discovering his father's presence, and that couldn't be a coincidence.

Jane would listen to him, comfort him, offer him a bed for the night—innocently, or not so innocently. She'd watch him with that sympathetic expression and reassure him that his feelings were valid. That was exactly why he couldn't go back to her place, even with the purest of intentions.

He needed her too much, had already grown to rely on her enough to be a burden, when she already carried enough of her own issues. His problems were his own to deal with. They always had been, and that couldn't change now. There was a reason he kept to himself, and letting Jane in? That would only lead to confusion and heartache for both of them.

He shot one more look at the entrance to Jane's street, then turned the car in the opposite direction, heading for Manhattan. He'd take out his fury on a punching bag in the NYO's gym facilities, take a shower in the locker room, then see if he could grab some sleep on a cot in the medical bay.

At least his father was good at occupying his thoughts, giving Kurt a way to avoid thinking any more about what had happened with Jane. Though his anger was all-consuming and tangled up with guilt about the past, this was familiar ground, and he was all too eager to leave behind the new territory he'd begun to tread earlier.

Anger and recriminations were so much easier for him to handle than guilty pleasure.