Author's Note: Wow, you guys really like it when characters suffer. :D There's a lot more angst to come...

Kurt pushed aside the last of his paperwork with a sigh. It was almost two months since Jane had disappeared into CIA custody, and he'd taken to drowning out thoughts of her with bureaucracy. The B in FBI was definitely accurate. How Mayfair had balanced work with the rest of her life, he had no idea. Apart from a couple of no-strings-attached nights with Allie, he'd spent every night since Jane had gone working late.

Pellington was probably over the moon at the efficiency of the department, but Pellington could go to hell as far as Weller was concerned. He'd forced Kurt to take this job in the first place, and then he'd refused to negotiate with the CIA for Jane's release. He'd been close to walking out in sheer frustration, but without work, without his team, what was left in his life? Sarah and Sawyer were in Portland. His mother had taken off when he was a teenager. His father was dead, and with him the mystery that had preoccupied him for twenty-five years.

Weller suspected that if he quit the FBI, he'd just sit at home and drink himself to death. Not to mention, he'd lose access to every resource he had to find Jane.

The day's administration dealt with, he toyed with the idea of grabbing a bottle of something strong and taking it home to nurse, but he'd watched his father drunkenly slobbing around on too many occasions to be comfortable with the idea. Instead, he went into Patterson's lab to double-check she had followed his orders to actually go home before midnight.

Wonder of wonders—she actually had. She'd left an open folder on her desk, and the familiar sight of Jane's three-tone tattoos drew him over to take a closer look.

Patterson had long since given up trying to track the CIA's movements out of the building with Jane, instead turning back to the tattoos during her time between cases. Her hopes were that since one other tattoo had led to a CIA black site, maybe there were directions to others, and one of them would be where Jane was being kept.

It seemed a long shot to Weller, but he hadn't told Patterson to stop. Maybe in a few more weeks he'd be strong enough to do that.

He ran his finger over the familiar and yet incomprehensible designs in the photographs.

I don't miss her. I just want answers.

Even as he thought it, he was laughing at himself, the sound loud in the silence. Learning that Jane wasn't Taylor Shaw didn't change the fact that he'd been in love with her. Not just interested. Not even just infatuated. When he remembered her smile, his chest ached. No matter how she'd lied to him, he couldn't help but miss her.

It wasn't a conscious decision to go to the safehouse Jane used to live in. He just found himself there. It had been vacant since that night, but although it didn't seem likely Jane would ever come back, he hadn't been able to bring himself to order some agents to clear it out. All of Jane's stuff was still here, including the sketches and notes about her own tattoos that she'd pinned up on the wall. Kurt stared at them blankly, his memory taking him back to happier times.

He should have kissed her the night she'd put his hand over her heart and whispered, "You're my starting point." He should have kissed her every day since, grabbed onto her and not let go, shown her how much she meant to him in every way he could think of. Maybe it would have hit him harder to learn that she wasn't Taylor, but he couldn't think of anything worse than this hollow wishing for an intimacy they'd never shared, one he knew they'd both wanted.

Now it was too late.

Kurt wandered through to the bedroom and realised that her belongings were still strewn around from when he'd ransacked her apartment for clues as to her identity. He hadn't been particularly careful.

He straightened the place up as much as he could from memory. It didn't take long; Jane didn't own enough to be messy, and people with military training usually couldn't abide clutter anyway. Putting the room to rights alleviated only a little of his guilt, and he sat on the end of her bed, sighing.

"What the hell were you into, Jane? Why didn't you tell me the truth?"

It had been after she'd kissed him that she'd changed. She'd been so desperate for connection when they'd first met; he'd hung back out of instinct as much as professional courtesy, knowing she was in a vulnerable state and not wanting to take advantage. Even though he'd picked up her signals that she found him attractive, he'd tried and completely failed to remain objective. When she'd slipped past her security detail to kiss him on the street outside his apartment building, his resolve had crumbled to dust.

But the next morning, her guard had been up. He'd written it off as nerves over where their relationship was heading, but then she'd stood him up at the park that night. His pride had been wounded enough that he'd pretended he hadn't gone either, but something was telling him in hindsight that he'd fucked up irrevocably by pushing her away.

Something had happened that night, after that kiss. She hadn't been quite the same since, and he'd thought it was his fault.

Now he thought back through all of the strange ups and downs of Jane's behaviour, he was pretty sure it was something else. Not that he had the faintest hope of knowing more without asking her.

With a groan, he lay back on the bed, kicked off his shoes to scoot backward to the pillows. Her residual scent filled his head and he closed his eyes, emotions both bitter and sweet rolling through him.

If he could just talk to her one more time…

He moved one arm up to rest his head against, and something rustled beneath his touch. Paper.

Kurt rolled over and stuck his hand inside the pillowcase, hoping Jane wasn't just hiding one of the erotic novels he'd once accidentally discovered his sister liked to read. When he pulled out the notebook he'd seen her with on several occasions, his heart leapt with rekindled hope.

There were many pages torn out, and he suspected they now formed the collage of sketches and notes she'd set up on the wall in the living room. Kurt turned back to the beginning of the book and went through the pages that remained intact one by one.

Some of the notations were for the cases they'd solved, information Jane had deemed irrelevant to the overall mystery of her tattoos' origins. There was also a list that made him smile, of all the foods she'd tried that she'd hated. PEEPS? – NEVER AGAIN!

He turned the page and blinked at the image of his own face, sketched and shaded in loving detail on the paper. For her to have taken so much time over it, he must have been on her mind as much as she'd been on his.

"Ahh, Jane," he murmured.

There were a few more sketches here and there—a coin from a country he didn't recognise; the outline of a radio tower; a helicopter with 'so apparently I can fly these?' scrawled underneath.

Then another list.

Things I can definitely not do:

- Sing

- Speak Spanish

- Win at Uno Attack

- Play instruments, probably? No muscle memory for piano.

- Complicated math equations

- Fashion, apparently (thanks, Zapata!)

Smiling a little, Kurt turned the next page and froze.

The portrait of a man he'd never seen before stared out at him, as detailed as the previous sketch of his own face had been. Underneath was a single word; a name. Oscar.

If Jane had remembered this man, why hadn't she given the sketch to Patterson for a facial recognition search? If he was someone she'd met since she'd come into Kurt's life, why hadn't she ever mentioned him?

He turned the page uneasily and found a sketch of Jane's head and shoulders, with longer hair and no tattoos. And below, a phrase that upended everything he thought he'd known for the second time in two months.

You did this to yourself.