Author's Note: In case you guys are interested but don't have me on your author alerts, I posted a little Jeller one-shot named Marriage Counselling earlier today. And now, here's an update that gets us back on familiar ground. :)

Immunity. At least that was something she could cling to. She just had to get through this whole mess and she'd be free to go build a life free of Alice's influence. A life she chose.

Jane stepped out of the shower and carefully patted dry her shoulder incision before towelling off the rest of her body. A growl of frustration escaped her as she tried to capture her dark hair in a towel turban, while trying not to inflict stress upon her injured arm or fingers. Everything was harder this way, from personal hygiene, to eating, to not punching Weller in his goddamn face.

She needed a session with a punching bag in the worst way, but she hadn't even started seeing a physiotherapist yet, let alone gotten the all-clear for some good, therapeutic violence. Not to mention that until her incision was healed, she had to let Weller poke and prod at her once a day, because she couldn't change the bandages with one hand.

She pulled on the shirt she'd taken to wearing during their wound-care sessions. It had three buttons down from the collar, meaning she could open them and pull the shirt to one side to reveal her shoulder without any modesty issues.

Not that Weller hadn't seen every inch of tattooed skin on her body already, in the images Patterson had meticulously captured the night she'd arrived at the NYO. Briefly, she considered just walking out there without anything on, just to watch him blush and stammer and order her to cover herself up.

Or maybe he'd do something completely different.

Jane yanked the towel off her head abruptly, almost glad when the motion sent a momentary flash of pain through her scalp as her hair tugged free of the twisted material. The last thing she needed was to fall back into lusting over a man who would never again return her feelings. Weller was the most morally upstanding man she'd ever met. He wouldn't want to be with a terrorist.

Even if he did still find her attractive, he'd withheld critical information about her case. She was only still here because she needed him to intervene on her behalf with the CIA. She was done caring about Kurt Weller.

The moment she walked out into the living room and saw him stretched out on the couch, apparently napping, Jane knew she was lying to herself. No matter how much he'd hidden from her, her traitorous hormones still went into overdrive when she was near him.

She'd woken them both last night with her nightmares. Even though she'd made it clear she was furious with him, he'd still brought her out of the dreams by calling her name, staying a safe distance away in case she lashed out. He could have left her to suffer alone, but he hadn't—until she'd snapped at him to get out, and he'd retreated back to Sawyer's room.

Evidently, he was catching up on his sleep a little now. He looked peaceful.

At least one of them was.

Any stirrings of attraction she might have felt were easily squashed by remembering what he'd said. What he'd done. What he hadn't said. Whenever she thought of the way he'd spoken to her the night he'd arrested her—the way he'd looked at her—she felt physically sick.

She'd wronged him. She would never deny that. But he'd wronged her even before she had known about Oscar, by keeping her origins secret from her, and she couldn't forgive him for that, any more than she could for his arresting her without cause.

Jane went into the kitchen to grab some coffee, not wanting to wake Kurt for more than one reason. Her incision still needed dressing, but it wouldn't do it any harm to dry out in the air for a while, either.

Tomorrow she had a follow-up appointment at the hospital, where they'd be checking her healing was progressing as planned. After that, they were going back to New York, and though the thought of a cross-continental flight didn't fill her with joy, it was better than the thought of an awkward road trip with Weller. The apartment felt too small to contain both of them; she hated to think of what a car would be like for multiple long days of driving.

"Hey."

She turned to find Weller standing in the doorway, still half-asleep and rubbing his stubbled cheek.

"I didn't mean to wake you," she said, and stepped aside to let him reach the coffee pot.

"And I didn't mean to fall asleep. Let me grab the first-aid kit."

Jane sipped her coffee as he pulled medical supplies out of the cabinet above the kitchen sink. Because of the decisions this man had made, three months of her life had been spent in complete agony and misery. She didn't want to make small talk.

She didn't want his hands on her arm and shoulder, gently examining her sutures.

She didn't want to hold still and allow him to apply a fresh bandage, his careful fingers smoothing the surgical tape into place against her skin.

She hated the way her skin rippled into goosebumps when he spoke, the vibrations from his voice sending a shiver through her.

"Looks good. There shouldn't be any issues at your appointment tomorrow."

Jane nodded, stepped away and buttoned her shirt. Uncomfortable in the silence, she picked up her coffee mug again and took a sip.

"Jane."

It's funny that we still call you Jane, isn't it?

She looked over at him, her entire body tense. Last night, in her dream, he'd thrown Taylor's muddy doll at her. As she'd recoiled, Oscar had impaled her on a scythe from behind, skewering the blade through her abdomen.

We'll find each other again, on the other side of all this.

Weller sighed. "I know it's hard for you to be here right now. And to let me help you with your wound, and with your nightmares. If there's anything I can do to make it easier until we get back to New York, just let me know."

"I don't think there is an 'easier' for us," Jane said, brushing aside the unexpected olive branch and leaving the kitchen before she could tell him exactly why that was.

Since she'd shrugged off his attempt at beginning to mend bridges, Weller had mainly left Jane alone. Apart from a couple of brainstorming sessions about the terrorist group she'd been a part of—putting together a hierarchy of the players Jane had met or heard mentioned, and the places she knew were connected to the organisation—they hadn't really spoken except about travel arrangements. He'd still woken her up from a nightmare last night, though when she'd ordered him to 'just go back to bed', he'd gone without trying to reach out to her further.

The hospital had been pleased with her progress, but he could have sworn he heard Jane audibly grind her teeth when the nurse had cautioned her against physical activity for at least another week, then only doing a fraction of what she thought she could manage.

During the plane ride back to New York City, she'd clutched the armrests of her seat every time the slightest bit of turbulence had struck the aircraft. Knowing she didn't want his reassurance, or for him to notice her fear, Weller had buried himself in the digital paperwork he'd had his assistant, Brianna, email over to him.

Now they were driving back from the airport, and just as on so many occasions when they weren't rushing to a critical situation, Jane reached for the radio dial.

The station he'd been listening to on the way to the airport was in the middle of Hate Myself for Loving You by Joan Jett and the Blackhearts. Kurt had to swallow the urge to laugh—not that he actually found the situation that funny.

I wanna walk but I run back to you
That's why I hate myself for loving you…

Either Jane could also relate, or she just didn't feel in the mood for Joan Jett, because she switched stations pretty quickly. After two ads in quick succession, followed by an opera aria so high that it made her wince, she landed on Alanis Morissette—the voice of angry women everywhere—and stuck there.

"Are you sure Pellington is okay with letting me back in the building?" Jane said after a few more minutes of music.

"What Oscar said changed his mind," Kurt replied, a little surprised she was actually speaking to him. "If there's a terrorist plot in the works, he wants the FBI to work with you to get it neutralised."

He didn't mention Keaton's words in the hospital about another agency. Until that actually bore fruit, it was just hearsay, though he would be surprised if nothing happened. For the CIA to relinquish a target, something had to be going on.

Jane nodded and lapsed back into silence until they were a couple of blocks away from the place she'd called home. "I don't have a key to the safehouse anymore," she realised, glancing over at him almost nervously.

"Your new detail brought a new one with them. Don't worry. You're all set."

"Thanks," she said awkwardly, as he turned onto her street. "This place is the only home I remember. It means a lot that I can have it back for now."

By the standards of conversation he'd gotten out of her over the past couple of days, it was practically a hug. It must really mean something to her.

"You're welcome," he answered quietly, and shut off the engine.

Jane had to have noticed the new protective detail that was already outside, but she didn't comment on the shift back to having agents watch her. While she took her small bag of clothing from the backseat of the car, Weller snagged the keys to the safehouse from the agents parked across the street, then headed up the steps to join her. After unlocking the door, he stepped back to let her enter first.

He'd assumed the safehouse would be secure and unoccupied, since the detail was right outside, but Jane froze only a couple of steps into the living room. He almost crashed into her before realising the potential threat and drawing his weapon instinctively.

A petite, immaculately presented South Asian woman rose from the couch with a small smile. "Hello, Jane. Agent Weller. I'm Nas."