For all of her longing, she hadn't thought about the sex.

Well, she once had, on more than one lonely night in the safe house, tangled up in her sheets waiting for sleep to pull her under, her fingertips tingling as they crept lower lower and into her underwear, kurt's name a sob caught in her throat.

That had been before, though, before the Black Site and Mayfair, and ever since her return to the FBI she hadn't given much thought to their new dynamic, mainly because its preeminent feature was his poorly concealed distrust of her and it hurt, goddamnit, it hurt more than it ought to, and she didn't feel inclined to poke at that particular sore wound by fantasising about how he would touch her when day after day he wouldn't even look at her-

Now, though.

They'd been on the run for nearly nine hours now, and she was no closer to finding out what had made him snap - what, after weeks of warnings signs, had finally made him lose his trust in the organisation he worked for, made him realise, much like she once had, that they were pawns in a much bigger play - and their turn to be sacrificed was imminent.

He hadn't said much - bringing up a storm as he raided her house for bugs, all he offered was a kiss and a look that said, I'm on your side and we need to leave. She hadn't needed much convincing.

Their final destination was DC - the journey made longer so they wouldn't cross Philly or Baltimore -and tomorrow it might be them against the world, but tonight it was just the two of them, in a small Inn just outside of town.

No phones, no lovable but interrupting nephews, no secrets or lies between them.

A moment that was just... theirs.

He'd gone into the bathroom to wash out the blood - not theirs, thankfully -, and she'd sat at the foot of the bed, frantically reviewing their plan for tomorrow, when the reality of the night ahead hit her.

It'd been a long time since she'd thought about the sex - but that didn't mean she didn't want it.

Quite the opposite, actually.

It takes Kurt almost reaching out to her, twice, hands twitching, for her to snap She turns, swings her leg over his and straddles him, and she knows he was also feinging sleep when he doesn't even startle, hands coming up to settle heavy on her hips.

She lets her weight push them together, watches closely the rise and fall of his ribcage, the motion of his adam's apple as he swallows, the hardness swelling beneath her.

He swallows once again, "Jane," pushes up until she can feel his chest brushing hers, his breath hot on her cheek. His hand comes up to push a few strands of hair away from her neck, smoothes them back. She shivers. He repeats, "Jane."

They meet in the middle, soft and warm, testing. Nothing like the frantic clash from earlier. It's not the first or the third they've done this, but it feels new somehow. His unshaven skin bristles against hers, her hand running up the column of his neck.

More.

She pushes him back down, her torso following. She wants to map out his body, so throughly that she knows it as well as her tattoos. Her heart feels like it's going to beat its way up her throat.

More.

Warm puffs of air against her mouth, hiw tongue retreating. She pulls back, just a little, just enough to see. "What?"

He's still chuckling, though his hands rubbing soothing patterns on her waist prevent her temper from flaring. "Sorry, it's just–"

She waits, eyebrow raised.

"You'll pilot a plane but you won't ride in it, right?"

She's puzzled for half a second, and then she remembers.

"Pretty sure some kind of riding's about to happen here."

She's ignored. "What was it that you said?" His face betrays nothing, though his dick twitches beneath her at her words. "What was it that you said? Something to do with being in control."

She fights back a grin, "Like you're any better."

He takes her with him when he rolls over. Settles heavy between her legs.

"I trust you with my life," She admits, because wherever her hesitancy stems from, it's not from distrust. Never again.

"Good."