A/N: Written for a prompt I received on tumblr: "Kurt and Oscar meet, and Kurt realizes for the first time that Jane might have a life outside the FBI." I had a lot of fun imagining this AU, as I was so disappointed we never got to see these two dummies actually meet on the show. Talk about wasted opportunities, it would've been crazy awkward fun. Please enjoy this take on it! :)

Jane wishes Kurt and Edgar would just leave. She knows they aren't lingering any longer than usual in the locker room after a case, but they are lingering nonetheless, and she wants them to go so she can dress in peace. Usually she wouldn't blink at getting undressed in front of either of them—after all, they change in this locker room together every day, and besides, it isn't like the two of them haven't been spending the last eight or so months pouring over naked pictures of her. But today, for once, she wants privacy in which to change.

Finally, she gets it: Reade and Kurt say goodbye, and the door shuts behind them, and she's alone in the empty locker room. Jane closes her eyes, sucking in a calming breath of relief. This entire day, she's been waiting for this moment, waiting to be done with work so she can change and leave. She glances over her shoulder as she spins the combination to open her locker—really, her own paranoia is bothering her at this point, what does she have to be embarrassed about?—but she is relieved nonetheless to see that there's no one else in the room. All the other agents left before them (not a surprise, given how late they stay for some tattoo cases), and the rest of the team had already left. She slides open the lock, removes it, and then yanks her locker open.

The dress is still there in its hanging bag, as pristine and untouched as it had been when she'd left it there this morning. Even looking at it brings a smile to her face, and she reaches out carefully to take it off its hook. If asked, she wouldn't be able to say how many times she's put it on. If she were put in interrogation, or drawn up in front of a court under oath, she'd have no way to explain just how much she loves this dress.

It is magnificent—to her, there's no other word for it. It is a long, almost floor-length black dress, cinched tight at the waist with a wide ribbon, form-fitting in the torso, and loose and flowing at the bottom. It is one-shouldered, and as she unzips the bag and starts to pull the dress out, she lets her fingertips linger along the translucent jewels that are sewn there, on the bit of fabric that will cover her left shoulder. The jewels are fake, of course, but she doesn't care. They still sparkle in the flourescent lights of the locker room and, she knows, from trying it on endlessly at home in the middle of the night, that they sparkle in low light too.

Quickly, she strips out of her work clothes, leaving them in a careless pile on the floor. She changes her bra—she specifically bought a strapless one for this, solid black, to match the dress—and then she starts to pull it on. Even though she's worn it at least a hundred times since she bought it last month, putting it on this time feels like the first time. She can feel the softness of the slip sewn in beneath the dress, sliding smoothly against her legs. She can feel the tickle of the train on her toes. She closes her eyes and smiles—so wide it hurts—and then she pulls up the zipper and ties the ribbon at the back.

The dress is one of a small handful of purchases she's made solely for herself since being formally brought into the FBI. It has been nearly nine months now that she's been working with them, and she has everything except a Quantico certification and the title of "agent": she has an ID badge, an employee number, a regular paycheck, budgeted sick days, vacation days, and—best of all, in her opinion—she has a rapport with the morning and evening guards in the front lobby. She has a place for herself here.

And she has a place for herself elsewhere, too.

She slips on her heels, checking her phone to make sure she still has time, and then she heads to the bay of mirrors in the back of the locker room. She stands in front of them for a still moment, relief coursing through her that today wasn't so bad; mostly it was office work, so neither is she sweaty from running around nor is her face bruised or her hair a mess from getting into fights. Good thing, too, because she hasn't quite figured out how to do anything creative with it. Mostly she just lets it lie.

Once, Patterson and Tasha put her through a beauty tutorial, and had tried to straighten it for a new look, but it had been a disaster. She'd looked even more like a ghost than usual, and none of the other "looks" they'd tried had had much success. But she did appreciate the other things they taught her: nail-painting and lipstick-applying and blush and concealer and eyeshadow. They'd tried eyeliner, but she had been too paranoid about poking herself in the eye to draw a straight line, let alone an attractive one, so they'd given up on that quickly.

Tonight, she doesn't bother with much. Sometimes it's fun to put in the effort—mostly when Tasha and Patterson are around to appreciate the work that goes into it—but usually she doesn't exert herself in the makeup department. All she applies now is a bit of blush so she doesn't look so pale, and red lipstick. That is something she likes: the sharp swath of red cutting across her pale face; it looks very nice contrasting with the darkness of the dress, too, she thinks, turning to the side to admire her work from another angle.

And that's what she's doing when Reade walks back in.

"Damn, Doe!" His low whistle makes her jump, and spin around. "What's the occasion, prom queen?"

She opens her mouth to speak, but then she sees he isn't alone—Kurt has followed him back in—and she doesn't know why she bothered with the blush, she's certain her cheeks are flaming red and will be for the rest of the night.

"I, um, I have a dinner," she says quickly, doing her best to look at Reade and not the slack-jawed stare of Kurt. His mouth is actually open.

Which is of course something Reade notices, not bothering to hide a snigger.

"You didn't say you had a date tonight," he replies, but for some reason he's looking at Kurt while he says it, and Jane frowns; she doesn't like when they tease her like this, pretending she's not here. But then Kurt blinks, coming back to himself, and she realizes what Reade's getting at. Her eyes go wide.

"No, we're not—"

She and Kurt start to speak at the same time, and then both stop, letting the other go first, and then start again, clashing together. Reade laughs at their fits and starts, and then walks over to his locker.

"All I came back for were these stupid flyers from the bar, because they'll get Zapata and I free shots," he explains, expertly undoing his lock in a matter of clicks, and then pulling the locker door open. He grabs a couple pieces of neon paper from the top shelf and then slams it again, spinning the combination. "I have to say," he continues, straightening up, "I sincerely hate shots. Hate them. But getting them free, and getting the chance to be the one to tell Zapata about this…" He grins, meeting Jane's eye. "Don't worry, Doe. You don't have to get me a birthday present this year. This is more than enough."

He slaps Kurt hard on the shoulder on the way out. "You, however, owe me for all your lies, boss."

A second later, Reade's gone, the door swinging closed behind him, and she and Kurt are alone. He's still standing across the room, staring at her, and she feels more self-conscious now than she ever has in all her time at the FBI. Strangers have been staring at pictures of her completely bare body for months, and yet she feels more exposed, here alone with him in this dress, than she ever has before.

Finally, he clears his throat and glances away, and she feels herself let out the breath she'd been holding.

"That's, um, that's a really nice dress," he says finally, rubbing at the back of his neck awkwardly.

Jane smiles a little, appreciating the attempt at normalcy. "Thanks," she replies. She's still holding the tube of lipstick in her hands, and she twists the base reflexively, opening and closing it like a nervous tic. "It's new."

She doesn't know why she's telling him this—why she's telling him anything, or why he's still here—but silences with him are hard, now. They aren't as easy as they used to be; she now finds the need to fill them with words, which she had never felt before, in the early months. There is so much she's been keeping from him—and from the rest of the team—and she worries sometimes, that if she lets the silences go on, the truth will just end up tumbling out in the worst fashion.

"You bought it for your dinner?" he guesses, and she nods.

She doesn't exactly know what to say. She can feel her mouth going a little bit dry at all the expectation. They—her and Kurt, and her and the team—try to make a habit of behind honest with one another, and for the most part, they do so consistently. She just hasn't found a way to explain this particular truth. She knows she'll only get one chance at it, and she wants to do it right. She has to do it right. It's too important to mess up.

She's searching for the right words, her heart pounding with the effort to explain it properly, when she's saved: her cell phone alarm goes off, reminding her that she has to leave now if she wants to make the reservation, and she hurries to it, grateful again to Patterson, this time for teaching her how to set up her calendar of events. She packs up her things: the make-up, lipstick, the hanging garment bag, and all her discarded clothes from work, and pushes them into her locker. Then she takes out a small black clutch (a surprisingly stylish gift from Tasha a couple months ago), and tucks her keys, wallet, and cell phone into it. She shuts her locker and spins away the combination. She can come back for the rest of her things later tonight—or, hopefully, on Monday morning.

She starts to say goodbye to Kurt, hurrying to the door with her coat—she really can't be late, or else they won't be able to keep the reservation, and it was made months ago—when he calls out her name. His voice is so quiet, it actually stops her in her tracks. She has the door half open, but she turns to him anyway.

"Yeah?" she asks.

He stares at her a moment, his eyes tracing over the rise and fall of her gown, and it's almost painful, the tender look in his eyes. That one kiss they shared outside his apartment was ages ago, almost part of another life itself, but she knows it doesn't feel so in the past to him. She grips the edge of the doorframe so hard her knuckles turn white, and braces herself for whatever's about to come.

"You look really beautiful," he says finally. "I hope—" He clears his throat. "I hope whoever you're meeting for dinner knows how lucky he is."

Jane nods her head, managing a soft smile for him. This truth, at least, she can share: "He definitely does."

A/N: Thank you for reading!