A/N: So... I was attacked by a vicious little plot bunny after seeing these posts on Loretta Lyon's forum:

Prompt 2 (Cold) - Either Weller or Jane (and I vote for Weller) is in a situation where he or she is suffering from exposure to cold. The other needs to use his or her body heat to warm up the first. Bonus points if it triggers a memory for Jane.

Prompt 8 - Write a story that ends with Weller and Jane falling asleep while cuddling together. It could be during or after a grueling case. It could feature Weller and Jane as kids. The time period and setting doesn't matter as much as our two cupcakes finally finding time to snuggle and sleep.

It only grew bigger and more complicated after the Fall Finale, becoming my longest one-shot to date. Let's not kid ourselves, we knew Jane was a part of what happened to her, but I didn't see her being the mastermind behind the whole thing.

Disclaimer: I don't own Blindspot. Unbetaed, all mistakes are mine.

Follow You A Scary Mile

She did this. To herself. She was on video with long hair, her skin pale and free of ink delivering a message to explain why a stranger who'd invaded her memory was there to help her.

She should've been grateful he was there. But the one person she's met who could tell her why and what caused her to go to such incredible lengths? The man she returned an engagement ring to who may've designed one or more of her tattoos? He isn't talking. Not only that, but she let him walk away.

It wasn't like she'd had much choice on the last part. He had a gun and she was unarmed. Not that she'd have shot him. He had answers. He so much as admitted it just by sharing the cellphone footage.

Oscar was sweet. He seemed blindly loyal like a dog. You read stories about animals who are mellow yet attack at the first sign their owner or handler is in trouble. The way he quickly took out Carter and then displayed the video was like that. It left her breathless and taken aback that someone she saw as a stranger would do that.

She had to wonder if he struggled with emotions the way she did. Though she felt no attachment to him, she meant something to him and he had to leave her. How could someone who loved her let her do something like this? Something so awful she'd forgotten everyone and everything before in favor of being a walking map for taking down terrorists and a lightning rod for life-threatening danger?

He'd hardly spoken. In fact, he'd turned to leave the moment his objective was complete. She was safe. If her mission was to uncover corruption, his seemed to be acting as a guardian. Oscar vanished almost as quickly as he appeared after swearing he'd be watching out for her, that he'd give her more information when her instructions called for it. He never once called her by name or gave her any detail that wasn't in the video. When she point blank asked him if she was Taylor Shaw, he neither confirmed nor denied it.

Despite having dreamt of making love with him, being in the same room and witnessing the mixture of sadness and hope in his eyes sparked no recognition. She felt nothing.

It's probably better this way, she tells herself. Better that Oscar is gone and Weller is on his way. Better she doesn't know why even though the not knowing makes her want to pull her hair out. What little she does know is damning enough because she has to keep it from him, from Weller and the team.

Alone and completely empty, Jane waits for them. She sits perched on the concrete steps outside trying to come up with a story for how Carter ended up dead as she tugs her fingers through her hair. She can't tell them about Oscar without telling them about the video, that she's responsible. They'd insist on finding him, tracking him down. She doesn't want to lie, but decides it's less a lie than an omission. She can live with that even if it causes discomfort.

She did this. She's responsible for what happened to her. She was the cause of David's death. Patterson said she couldn't have made it through without all of them, but the analyst would still be with David - having a life, a future - if not for the stupid tattoos. Tattoos she had put on her own body for some larger, unknown purpose.

Even as Jane shivers in her wet clothes, she can still feel the warmth of Weller's mouth from hours earlier. Taking out her cellphone to see how long it's been, Jane notices the missed call. Hearing Weller's recorded voice with its protective inflection makes her crumble but it isn't until she feels herself being pulled into strong arms and is breathing in the crisp scent of his soap that she realizes she's been crying.

He presses his lips to her forehead, her cheek. His hands run over her arms and he looks for injuries. "Dammit, Jane," he growls. "You shouldn't have been out alone." Tugging off his jacket, he wraps it around her shoulders before cupping her face between his palms. "I shouldn't have let you go. I should've..."

Green eyes wide, she stares up at him. "This isn't your fault, Kurt." It's mine. All my fault. She tips her head, nuzzling against his palm as his thumb strokes away a stray tear.

"I knew Carter would come after you. I just didn't think he'd do something this stupid." His voice is gruff and she can hear that he's angry with himself. Eyes narrowing, he tells her, "But that's why you had security. To keep you safe."

Did he regret it, seeing her unexpectedly? Kissing her back? Before she can voice the question a car parks behind his SUV. When Edgar Reade arrives, Weller quickly steps away from her and rubs his jaw and barks. "Where's Zapata?"

"I dunno, man," the agent answers. "She didn't answer when I called."

Tasha never comes, but Mayfair does. She shows up, taking charge and trying not to let emotion show but Jane sees it. It's easy to spot someone hiding things when you're doing it yourself. The Deputy Director's heels make a clopping sound that breaks up the quiet hanging between the team as she joins them on the sidewalk. "I need you all to get out of here. I'm going to handle this."

~ ~ ~ Blindspot ~ ~ ~

They never find out what happened, how Mayfair explained the CIA director's death. Jane gives a formal statement describing Carter's tactics and the mention of Orion. She reports she didn't see the gunman because the shot was made from the shadows. It's clean - probably too clean - but no one questions her. Instead, they call the shrink.

Sitting in the white room with Dr. Borden, she rubs her arms as she describes feeling like she was drowning. The weight of the cloth on her face, the feel of the water soaking the fabric before it entered her nose and mouth. Coughing and sputtering, unable to sit up. The experience was a manifestation of how she feels emotionally every day. She isn't sure which is more terrifying - actually being at risk of death or knowing she's the cause of her own suffering, the reason she feels she often can't breathe.

They talk about the four pops and the blood blossoming crimson against a white shirt. About watching the Carter slump to the floor and how it's different being the shooter versus the victim. She embellishes slightly, saying she was so focused on the man who'd been torturing her she didn't see her savior. It's a fragile half-truth, but one that's readily accepted. She isn't sure what to make of the fact no one asks how she got out of her bindings, but takes it simply as they trust her. It makes her feel even greater guilt for hiding the truth even as she promises herself it's only temporary. She will tell them. She just needs time to process it for herself without explaining first.

"I'm so tired, but I'm scared to sleep," she says sadly, pressing the back of her wrist to her forehead. Every time she shuts her eyes, she's taken back to that moment. She hears Carter's voice and feels the splashing of the water.

Borden leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. His voice is soft and kind when he finally addresses her. "I want you to close your eyes."

"What? Why?" She's tense, perhaps the most tense she's been since the lie detector test. Consumed with fear and burdened with guilt, she just wants to get out of the session and back to work. She needs to push herself until she collapses and gets rest in self defense, when she's too tired to function otherwise and it just happens.

The therapist laughs lightly, his position not changing. "Try for a minute, Jane. This may not work but, if it does, it should help you cope with some of the trauma you've experienced."

Though she sighs in frustration, Jane's eyes flutter closed. She counts her heartbeat silently as a distraction until she hears the doctor's voice again. "Take a deep breath and release it slowly." When she does, he praises. "Good, that's good. I know this will be difficult, but I want you to think of something that makes you feel safe. You've had a few emerging memories and new experiences. Does anything come to mind?"

A tiny gasp parts Jane's lips as she's carried back to the moment on an intake of breath. It's a soundbite in the insanity that's been her life but it's beautiful and perfect.

~ ~ ~ Blindspot ~ ~ ~

14 Hours Earlier...

She was nervous as she waited for Weller outside of his building. Her conversation with Patterson left her shaken. Living day-to-day without answers didn't mean she couldn't reach for what she wanted, for what was right in front of her. Life was precious and there wasn't time to waste.

He'd been there. He'd come when she was brought in because his name was tattooed on her back. And he'd stayed with her - fighting along side her not only to solve cases but to recover her memory - for reasons beyond comprehension. He was her starting point. It stirred something in her, spurring her into action.

She chose to learn from Patterson's mistake. It was time to stop shutting Weller out - denying the way her pulse raced when they were close - in favor of taking a chance. It couldn't have been an accident that it was his name and not someone else's. She felt that even knowing she was behind the plan.

When he spotted her, he immediately reached for her as his eyes searched the darkness for the people who were supposed to be protecting her when he wasn't or couldn't. Being with him without the team and in neutral territory was a necessity. Sneaking around like a teenager because she wanted to be alone with him felt oddly liberating. It was like reclaiming part of what she lost and, because it was before the video - before she knew she brought this on herself - there was a purity to it. She felt... normal. Like a woman who was interested in a man. Not a specimen to be studied.

Kissing him - feeling the firm softness of his mouth in contrast with the scratch of his beard - made her feel every cell in her body humming with life. Kurt Weller is an attractive man to begin with, but the smile he gave her when they pulled apart made her knees buckle. Maybe it was the crinkling at the corners of his eyes, maybe it's because she now knows the texture of his mouth. All she knows is she wants to see, feel, taste that look more often.

His hand was rough against her jaw when their mouths collided again. If his nephew hadn't appeared she might have devoured him. As it was, she laughed awkwardly, clutching at his jacket with a blush.

Watching him fumble? Seeing him confused and, for a change, being the one who was more in control? That glimmer of excitement and sheer joy was effervescent. She felt whole as she walked down the street, even without her memories.

That was probably why she didn't see the attack coming.

~ ~ ~ Blindspot ~ ~ ~

Weller is waiting for her when she comes out. He falls in step with her as she heads for the locker room. "We've got a lead," he tells her. For the first time in hours, they're alone and it's scary. She doesn't know how to feel or act around him. He's her happy thought but everything has changed. What if she slips up? What if he doesn't want to be around her when he learns the truth, learns what she did? "Winter gear. You and I leave in 20 minutes. Reade is going to find Zapata and bring her in."

Jane nods without looking at him. She opens her locker door and tugs a clean tshirt from the space. She's still wearing Weller's jacket, her own clothes damp if not warm beneath it. It's a wonder Borden didn't have something to say about that.

She's going to have to take it off to change and the thought makes her reluctant. It isn't stripping her clothes off in front of him that's the problem. He's seen every inch of her in glossy photos and screen shots. It's giving up his scent, his warmth and going back to the cold existence where they distance themselves from each other. Only this time it won't be his professionalism holding them back, it'll be her sense of self preservation and the need to keep her secret until she knows why she would do something so unthinkable.

He hovers and the suffocation is almost worse than nearly drowning. He wants to help. He means to help. She knows that. She knows he only wants to ground her and bring her comfort, to carry part of the burden and ease her along the way. But he can't this time, no matter how badly she wants him to.

"What happened?" There's concern in his tone. It's different - deeper - than earlier. His fingers brush hers as he takes his coat from her and he lets the garment hang at his side like the grocery bag from the night before, lifting his other hand to tilt her chin up. "What really happened, Jane? Talk to me. We're in this together, remember?"

She swallows, trying to hold the emotion she feels back. To protect herself - to protect both of them, really. She distances herself the same way she's seen him do a few times. With anger. "What happened? You want to know what happened?"

Slamming the door, she growls at him. "Yes, he tortured me. Yes, I nearly drowned." She turns from him and tries to put some space between them. "But he's dead because of me. He's the second person to die because of me in 24 hours. How long before you're next?"

Weller blinks at her the way he had after Sawyer interrupted them. Confusion, uncertainty. Maybe a hint of disbelief. This time he crosses his arms and rocks back on his heels. They're joined by Reade and Jane makes a beeline for the door before Weller can stop her.

In the ladies room, she splashes cool water on her face. She grips the edge of the sink and holds her breath. Drowning. Unable to breathe. Losing Kurt would be worse, unbearable.

Why him? Why would she have chosen him? Why would she have put him at risk?

~ ~ ~ Blindspot ~ ~ ~

On the plane, she twists her hands. This flight isn't turbulent like the last one but, now that they've broken the touch barrier and are alone, she's a different kind of uncomfortable. She wants to go to him, but she knows she shouldn't. It's too risky to get close.

He hasn't spoken to her, but his eyes have stayed trained in her direction. Vigilant, he watches, seemingly waiting for her to make a move. That makes her more irritated. She encouraged him to open up. She kissed him. She was always making the first move. She's tired of it, tired of everything.

More than that, she knows she should be grateful he isn't pushing. The fact that he's a professional and a gentleman will ultimately enable her to keep her responsibility for the tattoos and Oscar's existence from him.

"Jane." He's cautious, reaching out for her and taking her hands in his. She doesn't look at him, she can't look at him. "You need to rest. You haven't slept."

"I'm fine." Her voice is tight, strained. She pulls her hands away. It hurts not to touch him when he's so close, but the video changed everything. She's afraid he'll get hurt, that she will be responsible for getting him hurt. Or worse. Dead. Hasn't she hurt enough people, including herself?

The protective gene kicks in. He doesn't back down. It's the same as when he decided the security guard was feeling her up, but different because it's for no one's benefit but her own. "You're not fine. Stop pretending like you are." Pulling her up, he drags her to the sofa on the other side of the cabin and tucks her against his chest. "It's okay to be upset."

Slowly and with infinite care, he cups her face. She shivers, not with cold but with every ounce of the desire she felt when they kissed on the street. His lips find hers delicately if not clumsily and he peppers her with a flurry of gentle kisses. Nothing deep, nothing sexual. Caring and sweet as he rubs her shoulder, her back, her neck.

By the time she realizes what he's doing - that he's providing comfort and soothing her frayed nerves - her eyes have grown tired. His mouth strays from the corner of hers to her ear and up to her forehead. He positions her back against his chest and strokes his fingers through the hair at her temple.

"You haven't slept either," she reminds him. Her voice is soft now, almost inaudible. Fingers curling around the arm wrapped across her body, she tilts her face up. "Kurt, I..."

Leaning down, he pecks her lips. "Shh. Sleep, Jane." His arms are strong as they envelop her, providing support and security. She sighs, her eyes fluttering closed. The sound of his heartbeat is a lullaby and she tucks her legs under her as she snuggles into his embrace. His breath is warm against her ear as he whispers, "Let me hold you."

~ ~ ~ Blindspot ~ ~ ~

A young girl runs across the grass, a long, dark braid swinging behind her. She wears blue jeans and a purple My Little Pony tshirt. Leaves crunch under the soles of her tiny sneakers. She races for a ladder and scrambles up to a treehouse with tears streaming down her face. The colors are a little too vivid and the sun is a little too bright.

There's a boy, too. He's older than the girl and appears frustrated that she doesn't stop when he shouts a name that's lost on the wind. The eyes that peer hippo-style over the hole in the floor when he climbs the ladder a minute later are bluer than the sky outside the window and he seems unsure whether or not he should join her.

The chill of the fall air slices through the cracks between the boards and she wraps her arms around herself, shivering in the cold. "Go away!" she fusses at the boy, shoving loose hair from her damp cheeks with the flat of her tiny palm the way only a child could.

He laughs and his eyes crinkle when he smiles. Putting on a serious expression, he tries to be stern as he climbs into the space. "You go away. It's my treehouse."

His shoulders drop when she cries harder, her little body shaking with sobs. Rolling his eyes, he walks across the floor to her on his knees and pulls off the heavy coat he wears. He flops down next to her, wrapping her up in his jacket and hugging her close. "Shh. It's okay. It'll all be okay. I've got you. I promise."

~ ~ ~ Blindspot ~ ~ ~

She wakes up first. His arms are still around her, but they're stretched out on the couch now. There's a blanket she doesn't remember tossed over them and she's turned against his chest.

Disoriented and aroused, she squirms. The movement is enough to wake him. His tongue slips over his lip and he smiles softly before leaning in. Her heart pounds as his mouth covers hers and she lets out an honest to god whimper of surprise when his tongue dances over her own and his fingers slip into her hair.

Deeper and hungrier, this kiss isn't like what they shared the night before. It isn't soft or gentle. He doesn't stop and he doesn't let up. Instead, he uses his hands and position to perfectly angle her body and mouth for his assault. She's overwhelmed, flooded by new and different feelings. Clinging to him, she sucks his lip and tangles her ankle over his.

"When this is over..." he murmurs, his hand sliding from her hip to the curve of her bottom and down her thigh to drag her leg further around him. A low groan spills into her mouth and she blushes at the possessiveness of the sound. His fingers stroke her cheek, his eyes locking with hers as they struggle to catch their breath. "You and me..."

"Agent, we're approaching the drop point." Interrupted. Again. Another throaty laugh escapes and she moves a hand to cover her mouth. He joins her with a chuckle of his own, rubbing his neck as he gets up stiffly.

Coats on, he wraps a scarf around her neck and uses it to pull her close. "When we get back to New York." The look in his eyes - the raw and naked hunger - makes her legs clamp together. "I'm you're detail." His meaning is clear before he completes the thought. "Only I won't be staying in the car and you won't be getting out of bed."

~ ~ ~ Blindspot ~ ~ ~

The first part of the mission is a success. They make it in time to stop the sale of the bomb only to get separated when Weller chases after the suspects leaving Jane to try and diffuse the device. Later, after all is said and done, she wouldn't be able to say exactly how she'd done it or how long it took but the only thing that mattered was she managed to keep it from going off.

Snow is falling heavily when she goes to look for him. It crunches beneath her boots as she follows the tracks leading away from the cabin. The sun is setting and the temperature is dropping rapidly. Her breath hangs on the air in smoky ribbons and her chest tightens more at the thought of getting trapped for the night than from the chill filling her lungs.

She advances slowly following the path with her wrists locked and a flashlight supporting her service weapon. He should've been back by now. It had been too long.

A whirlwind of questions cycle through her mind. Was Oscar lurking somewhere? Should she have gone with Weller and left the device counting down? Was the detonator even real? What if Weller was hurt? What if the team couldn't find them before nightfall?

They'd lost communication when they walked into the cabin thanks to a jamming device. She found a sat-phone looking for other equipment but the battery was dead. If there was a charger somewhere then maybe, just maybe, they had a shot.

Gunfire. She isn't far now. Cutting the light to hide her position, she works her way through the trees. Two men arguing. One is definitely Weller.

"Drop your weapon and stand down," he says.

Rather than answer, the other man pulls the trigger. There's a crack. "You see, I hate bloodshed," he says in a clipped accent. "I much prefer a cleaner approach."

From her position, Jane watches Weller take a step only to disappear. Ice. The crack had been ice. His head breaks the surface and he gasps for breath. Emerging, she takes a shot and Weller's assailant falls, clutching his chest.

Without thought of anything but Kurt's safety, Jane abandons her own weapon and rushes to the edge to help him. She's so blind to anything but her troubled partner that she misses the second gunman. He's out of ammunition, much to her relief but Weller calls out her name as she feels an arm close around her neck in a chokehold.

It isn't the first time she's taken on a man nearly twice her size since she's been working with the FBI, but it is the first time she's had to do it in the cold with Weller in a pool of icy water just outside of her reach. She can't breathe. Choking, drowning, she's stuck in place even as she manages to land a few blows.

"Aren't you a prize, kitten?" the man grinds through gritted teeth against her ear. "I've always liked the feisty ones."

"Let her go." The sound of Weller's voice opens her eyes and she sees him standing with her gun trained on the man holding her. Her breath comes in sharp bursts and she nods tightly to her partner before jabbing an elbow into her attacker's side and stomping on his foot. It's enough for her to duck away and give the agent time to take the shot.

He collapses immediately after the body drops and Jane hurries to his side. Her arms are around him and she's pulling him against her to keep him out of the snow. "Are you okay?" he manages.

She wants to cry that it's him she's worried about, but there isn't time. She has to act. Fast. "Can you stand?"

It takes effort to get him to his feet and he's shivering against her as she does her best to support his weight. The cabin. Their best chance was to get to the cabin. It was at least warm and dry. There was a fireplace, likely blankets. They could make it. They had to. She wouldn't lose him.

By the time they get back, his teeth are chattering and his lips are almost blue. "Stay with me, Kurt," she pleads as they fight their way up the stairs. "What you did back there..."

His hand is like ice as he cups her face. His voice is broken by cold and growing delirium. "Silly, Jane," he mumbles, giving her a sloppy kiss. "I'll always come for you."

She just shakes her head and deposits him in a wooden chair near the fire. Next she pushes the couch closer to the heat source and rushes to grab all the blankets and towels she can find. His eyes are closing, he's fading.

"Wake up, dammit," she bites. Slapping his cheek, she tries to jar him back to consciousness as tangled emotions start to get the better of her. "I did not haul your ass back here so you could die on me, Kurt Weller."

Undressing him is a challenge in his state. His jacket hits the floor, followed by his scarf and shirt. Kneeling, she takes his boots and socks as he leans heavily on her shoulder and the chair for balance. She sucks in air as she reaches for his belt. This was so not how she thought seeing him naked for the first time would go...

Momentarily leaving his boxers, she stands and pulls off his tshirt. Hard muscle, firm abs but not quite six pack definition. It strikes her that he doesn't seem bothered by the way her eyes caress his body, but neither of them makes a smart ass comment.

Weller makes a noise somewhere between pleasure and pain as Jane's hands slide between his boxers and his hips to shove the last soaked garment from his body and exposing all of him to the room's temperature. His skin is as cold as hers is warm. Grabbing a towel from the pile, she wraps it around his waist to give him some modesty before helping him to the couch.

His eyes close as his head hits the pillow, but he reaches for her as she tucks him in under the blankets. Not yet, big guy, she thinks to herself. First she needs to stoke the fire and make sure there's plenty of wood. She needs the time to calm her thoughts and racing heartbeat.

Step one is putting the phone on the charger. There's dry wood sheltered against the side of the house and space for it next to the hearth. After adding to the fire, she makes tea and calls headquarters. "We're safe, but Weller is hypothermic. I'll do what I can, but he needs medical attention."

Mayfair sounds tired but relieved. "Reade and Zapata should be there by morning. I'll have them stop for a medic. And, Jane? Good work."

It doesn't feel like good anything. It feels like she's losing Weller - whether it be from cold or keeping secrets. It feels like her world - what little she knows - is crashing down around her.

Shifting to sit next to him, she tries to lift him enough to get him to take some of the warm liquid. All that matters is taking care of him. When she feels he's had enough, she returns the mug to the kitchen before laying his clothes out to dry. She's sure she can feel his eyes on her as she slowly strips out of her own clothing.

Body heat. She tells herself it's a necessary evil, that she's doing it to up his temperature and help him get warmer. But the truth is she needs to be close to him, with as little separating their flesh or dividing them as possible. If the conversation they had on the plane says anything, he wants it too... or he did and would until he knew.

Her hands slide shyly over her inked skin and she covers her breasts as she turns around. She's not even sure why. He's seen all of her and she's now seen all of him. Still, since they've kissed, it's more intimate and she's nervous even though he's mostly unconscious.

Lying with him in the glow of the firelight and feeling his skin against hers is an incredible sensation. Her fingers play in the hair on his chest as she rests her head over his heart. She hears him hum a soft sound as his palm splays across the small of her back beneath the covers and just above the elastic of her panties.

As she drifts off to sleep, she can't help but wonder if he's thinking about her or another woman. She hopes it's her. She wants it to be her. And the stirring of his body says she may be right.

~ ~ ~ Blindspot ~ ~ ~

"It's cold," the boy says with a frown. "Let's go inside."

"No." The girl's voice is forceful if not meek, she clings to the front of his sweatshirt and buries her face under his chin.

"But there's cocoa and cookies in the house," he coerces, poking her growling tummy. He's shivering a little now, but he hides it from her.

"Okay," she whispers, taking his hand when they stand up.

He goes down the ladder first, lifting her down the last few rungs before she can change her mind. She's slow, but he knows it's that she's little and worried about tripping over his scarf, which drags the ground. "C'mon, shorty," he teases, pulling the chair out and helping her into the seat. "I think Dad even bought marshmallows."

Though her little cheeks are tear-stained, her smile is bright and he laughs as she bounces and claps at the thought. He pulls down a mug with teddy bears and dumps in a packet of Swiss Miss before setting the kettle on the burner.

They don't talk while he prepares the treat, but her eyes watch him intently. He cuts the stove off before the whistle and stirs the steaming beverage carefully. Taking out a bag of extra marshmallows, he puts a handful in the top and carries it to the table with a small plate of sugar cookies.

"I'm here for you, kiddo," the boy says, gently squeezing her tiny shoulder as he places the goodies in front of her. "I'll always come when you need me."

~ ~ ~ Blindspot ~ ~ ~

She awakens to hands stroking her bare back and lips pressing to her hair. A blush stains her cheeks when she feels his arousal against her belly. "Kurt."

Kurt. Not Weller. Weller is the agent she works with. Kurt is the man she wants to take to bed. And from the feel of it, he wants that, too.

"Jane," there's a teasing lilt to his voice that makes her shiver. His fingertips dance up her spine and massage her neck. "You know, if you wanted to see me naked, you could've just asked."

Laughing, she nips at his neck and nuzzles against his stubbled jaw. "Next time I won't save you from hypothermia."

He tickles her then - who even knew she was ticklish? - and forces her beneath him on the narrow sofa. A low groan passes his lips when the towel parts and his naked body comes fully in contact with hers. Their mouths connect, tongues as hungry and searching as his hands.

Everywhere he touches - her throat, her breasts, her thighs as they part to make space for his hips - is on fire. She feels sexy and beautiful and wanted. Her breath comes out in pants and her back arcs as she desperately tries to get closer.

They become so embroiled in each other they don't hear the door open and Reade has to clear his throat twice before they look up. Caught in the act, Weller uses his body to shield Jane's from view as he leans to whisper, "Maybe the third time's the charm?"

Zapata holds out her hand and wiggles her fingers at her counterpart. "See? I told you being naked even for a legit reason meant he wouldn't keep his hands to himself. Fork over my money, Eddie."

~ ~ ~ Blindspot ~ ~ ~

All concern that things would be different when they got back to the city vanish when Weller walks to the dark colored sedan parked in front of the safe house and leans down to the window. She can't hear what's said, but the vehicle pulls away from the curb when he pats the roof and he looks both ways before jogging across the street. There's a familiar crinkle to his eyes, a cocky smile spreading across his face as his hand finds her hip. "What?"

"Nothing," she says, blinking in the late afternoon sun and fumbling with her key. His breath is warm on her neck and she can feel the heat of his body at her back.

When they get inside, he quickly closes the door and presses her back against it. Hot, heavy and all consuming, she's grateful for the firm surface behind her because she's sure she'd be a puddle of goo at his feet if they were anywhere else. She wouldn't trade it though, not his warm mouth or the hands that slip under the hem of her shirt.

"Where were we?" he asks gruffly, the tone of his voice stroking her insides and making her weak. This - whatever it was - was about to happen. Maybe for the first, last and only time, but she was willing to take that chance - to know his touch and commit it to her memory - in case everything went to hell. She embraces the moment along with the man.

Taking his hand she places it at her throat before slipping her own under the back of his shirt and leaning up to steal his lips. Dark and wild, far from the innocence of their first kiss or the comfort of the ones that had followed, this kiss takes her somewhere she's positive she's never been.

Clothes are peeled away. Jackets? Gone. Shirts? Who needs them? Shoes get toed out of and her sports bra hits the floor, too. Stray articles litter the carpet in a path leading to the stairs.

Oh, God. The stairs. What happens on the stairs will ensure she never looks at another flight the same way again.

Their pants and underwear are still intact, but that's all they have on. They stumble on the steps in stubborn refusal of their lips parting. Kurt manages to keep her from falling completely, but instead of pulling her up, he lowers her to her back and catches the peak of her nipple between his teeth.

Beard scraping deliciously against her skin, his hand works the fastenings on her jeans and his fingers slip inside the fabric. She moans, her eyes closing as his mouth finds hers again. "Don't you..." The words are halted as she gasps for breath, her palms pressing against his chest. "Wanna go upstairs?"

What he does next leaves her seeing stars. Slowing to a lazy pace, he chuckles before flicking his thumb over a sensitive spot and sliding his digits deep. "What's wrong," he torments, stroking as much with his voice as with his hand. "With right here?"

By the time they actually make it to her room, he has her so worked up she couldn't tell you if it was five minutes or forty. Hell, maybe it's been hours.

They don't actually end up in bed. They start against the wall and end up on the carpet before moving into the bathroom. After a long, hot shower that's more dirty than clean, they tumble into bed in a mess of sweltering kisses and tangled limbs.

She knows they'll both be sore in the morning and she relishes the thought. Because this time it won't be from fighting.

~ ~ ~ Blindspot ~ ~ ~

"Can I come?" she asks impatiently. Abandoning the sun she's drawing in the driveway, she turns the bike that's laying on the ground upright and offers a hopeful expression.

The boy rolls his eyes. "You're too little. You won't be able to keep up."

It's summer now. They both wear shorts and tshirts. He's got a baseball glove in his hand and he tosses a ball into the air, catching it as it comes down.

"Go watch a movie with Sarah," he tells her, picking up his own bike and nodding to the boys across the street as she drops hers with a pout.

Later, the sky turns dark and she gets tired of waiting for the boy to come back. Rushing to the backyard as fat raindrops erase the pictures she's drawn with sidewalk chalk, she climbs into the treehouse and sulks.

He finds her there later, scared to come down in the lightning. "Geez, Tay, I looked everywhere," he complains, waving for her to come down. "It's time for supper."

She doesn't budge. Her arms remain tightly wrapped around her little legs and she pouts, swiping away tears as thunder booms in the distance.

"You aren't still mad at me, are you?" he asks, a frown tugging at his mouth. She shakes her head and he sits down on the floor as a flash illuminates the treehouse. "Hey, wanna know a trick?"

Scooting next to him, she nods and snuggles under his arm. "You can tell how far away a storm is by counting the seconds between the lightning and thunder," he tells her. They wait for another bolt to brighten the sky and he starts, "One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi."

By four, he's got her counting along. By six, he's managed to get her out of the treehouse. There's another flash at seven, but she's so busy running through the rain and splashing in puddles she doesn't notice.

When they get to the back door, he smiles and takes her hand. "See? That wasn't so bad." He ruffles her hair. "I meant it. I'll always come for you."

~ ~ ~ Blindspot ~ ~ ~

The phone rings around midnight, vibrating against the nightstand and pulling her from the comfort of the arms snaked around her waist. The number on the screen is unfamiliar and she almost doesn't answer, but something tells her to unlock the screen.

"You're starting to remember things." The voice on the other end of the line is pained. Even though she's only heard it once outside of her dreams, she recognizes it instantly.

Jane leaves Weller in her bed and moves into the hallway, pulling on her robe. "Oscar?"

"That was part of the plan too, you know." He sounds broken and distant, like he's lost. There's a long pause and he adds, "I think that's why you gave the ring back."

She blinks in confusion, pushing her hair behind her ear and straining to hear him. On instinct she moves to the window and peeks between the blinds. "Are you...?"

"You knew you'd fall in love with him," he continues. The chill in his voice makes the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. "And you have."

He makes a sound that isn't quite a sob and there's a shuffle on the other end of the line. She can't make out the source of the sound, but it's enough to tell her he's not outside her place. "Oscar, Kurt and I..."

"So it's Kurt now?" he asks bitterly, pressing on before she can get a word in. "Don't bother telling me you don't love him. You may not have figured it out yet, but you do. I think maybe you always have, but being with him was what finally pushed you over the edge."

"You don't know what you're saying," she says, needing to defuse the situation. It's true she has strong feelings for Kurt Weller, but is it love? Does she even believe in love given what she'd done to herself? She needs Oscar because he has answers Kurt can't give her. She's torn between the man she wants and one she can't remember but know is important, or used to be.

His voice is soft with a deadly edge when he answers. "Trust me. I do know." She isn't sure how it's possible for someone to sound incredibly strong and yet completely weak all at once. "Because you look at him the way you used to look at me."

An overwhelming sense of emptiness and dread fills her, blackening all the happiness and peace she's felt the last few hours. She should've known this was coming, should've been prepared. Scrambling for her bag, she wonders if she can sneak out without Kurt hearing her. "Where are you? I'll come to you. We can work this out."

"It's too late for that now," he says calmly. "I hoped I was wrong, that things would be different, but I was right. You don't want me. You don't need me anymore." She freezes in place, her heart stopping in her chest when he confirms her suspicions. "Give up the plan, Taylor."

A dream is a wish your heart makes and memories - the warmth of friendship shining like a beacon in the darkness - will always guide you home. As much as some things are inevitable, others resurface no matter how deeply you think they're buried.

"Be with him and don't look back," he murmurs. "Stop chasing demons before you become what you're hunting." She can hear the tears in his voice. "I loved you. I'll always love you, but you don't need me anymore. You have him now."

"Oscar, wait..." She can't move, she can't breathe. Something about his words is final. She needs to know. She needs to understand why. He may not have been the man she was meant to be with but she must've cared for him at some point if they'd been engaged. She must've trusted him if he'd been a part of her plan.

He takes a breath. "Sirius," he says quietly. She stifles a scream of pain as she drops to her knees. "Goodbye, Taylor." Dial tone fills the quiet and the phone falls from her hand as a rush of memories come flooding back.

Like an everyday miracle, Weller's arms are around her almost before she hits the floor. He holds her like the boy in her dreams held the little girl. He holds her like he did on the plane and in bed when they fell asleep. She clings to him like she did as a child and the way she had when he was freezing and she was scared she was going to lose him. She curls against his chest and counts the beats of his heart.

"Shh. I've got you." His fingers are in her hair and his body is a furnace even wearing nothing but boxers. He presses his lips to her forehead fiercely. "I'm here. I'm here with you. What's going on? Talk to me."

She doesn't tell about the phone call. She can't. Not yet, maybe not ever. She doesn't want to think about the memories that are flooding back.

Well, that's not completely true. Her arms wind around his neck and she whimpers through her tears as he lifts her into his arms. "You had a treehouse as a kid," she tells him so quietly she isn't sure he hears her. "And you gave a little girl your coat once."

He stiffens, drawing back and looking into her eyes. They remain quiet for a long moment and she watches him try and temper the awestruck expression that settles into his handsome features. "That was the day Taylor's mom told her her dad wasn't coming back," he tells her. "How did you... How could you know that?"

Tears drip down his chest and her nails dig into his neck. "You said you'd always come for me," she hushes against his skin. "And you have."

When he tilts her chin up, the questioning look in his eyes fades into a smile that's followed by a tender kiss when she says the words neither of them thought she'd ever voice. "I'm Taylor Shaw."

A/N: Yeah... so I'm still not entirely sure what happened at the end there, but I just kinda went with it. Love it? Hate it? Let me know.

Can you solve the title anagram? Answers to my Blindspot titles will be posted on my profile shortly after stories are published.