A/N: Not really sure what this is. I got hung up on this idea for J&K today and had to type it out. Enjoy the PWP! :)

Kurt wasn't exactly sure how he and Jane ended up naked on the couch in his office, and he didn't really care to recall the exact details. He remembered the beginning: the power going out earlier in the night, and Jane rushing into his office in the dark, frightened that they were under some sort of lockdown, or attack. He hadn't even known she'd been in the building; he had thought that, like most nights, he was the last one left on the twelfth floor.

But she'd been there.

And now she was here: naked, in his lap, rocking through a slow rhythm as she moved above him.

Though he wanted to do nothing more than turn her over, place her beneath him, and pick up as much speed as she would allow, he made himself let her take her time. Even slightly drunk as he was (and she was too; they'd gotten into his emergency bottle of scotch earlier), he knew letting her pacing this herself was important. Letting her have control of anything—even this poorly thought-out and half-drunk midnight fling—was important. Ever since she'd crawled out of that bag, it seemed like she hadn't been able to reassert control over any aspect of her life, and he wanted to her this, at least. He couldn't give her what she really wanted—her memories—but he could give her a few minutes tonight of pleasure and peace. He could hold her and give her a place of belonging, just for a little while. He could distract her enough so that she didn't think one second ahead, or one second behind.

He closed his eyes as they kissed, trading the near-dark of his barely illuminated office with the full dark behind his eyelids. He drew his hands up her back, letting his fingers strum along the notches of her spine as if they were strings on a guitar.

She didn't make any music, though. In fact, she hardly made a sound. Far from worrying him—he had no qualms about her enjoyment; he could feel her satisfaction around him—her near silence amused him. He knew she was staying quiet for fear of being overheard, but there was no one to overhear. It was after-hours, so late that even the custodial staff had long left. They were the only two people on the blacked-out twelfth floor, and in the darkness of his closed office, they might as well be the only two people in the world.

As he lifted his hands from her spine, up over his name tattooed on her back, and into her hair, he wondered if she had stayed so late on purpose. Had she waited out the hours, thinking of this, hoping for it to somehow come about? No—he knew the answer at once. When she'd run into his office after the lights had gone out, there had been real worry—even fear—in her face. She had not used the breach of power as an excuse.

But it had nonetheless opened doors.

As the emergency lights that flashed on during the black-out only illuminated the emergency exits, she had migrated to his office for light with which to work by. He had candles stored, for just such an occasion, and when he'd mentioned that such outages had happened before, they'd gotten into a heated (at least on her part) argument about the proper allocation of government funds. She had been disgusted that the federal government could justify using money on anything when it couldn't even keep the lights running, but she stopped arguing when he pointed out that a good deal of the federal government's money was currently going to her: her home, her safety, her guards, her stipend. She had grown quiet at the reminder of the truth, and they each went back to work in silence for a while after that.

Unit she noticed the pictures.

He hadn't thought anything of them—he was forever surrounded by naked pictures of her, and looking at them in studious detail was quite literally his job these days—but it was a little different when the naked woman in the pictures was sitting directly across from him.

When he had noticed her looking, he had quickly offered to put the pictures away. Part of his job or not, the pictures were still of her body, and there was no reason he should have full-frontal nudes of her just lying around on his desk as if they were interdepartmental memos. But she had shaken her head at his offer to put them away. Instead, she had picked one up, a side shot, and brought a candle close so she could examine it in what detail the flickering light allowed her.

Do you think I'm good-looking? she had asked, and he had felt his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth, not having expected such a question—nor knowing how to answer it without betraying himself. I mean it, she continued in the face of his silence. She had not looked up from the picture; her eyes were tracing her own curves, though far more critically than his ever had. Do you think I'm attractive?

Why are you asking me that? He was actually proud of that response, proud of the neutrality of it. Had he not been able to watch his tongue, he would've screamed, Yes! to her initial questions. But luckily he had some self-control.

She had shrugged in response, trying to play it off. But he was curious now—and so he pressed. Eventually, without meeting his eye, she admitted, People have been saying things.

What things? He was on edge immediately. Had he had hackles, they would've risen a foot off his back. Who's saying things to you?

No one in particular, she answered quietly, her eyes still trained on the picture, but he knew what was between the lines. He knew what men were like, especially in New York City. He had seen the stares she got at work; he could only imagine what people said to her on the streets. Apparently more had been driven to harsh judgments than come-ons, but Kurt imagined both extremes to be of equal insult.

Not for the first time that night, he looked at her sitting across from him and wondered why she was working so late. He had yet to ask her—it seemed irrationally like an invasion of privacy—and now he didn't know if he even had to ask her. It made sense, now that he thought about it. Why on earth would she want to leave work at the same time as the rest of the city, and be put through the punishment of the crowded commute? Why would she force herself to cater to hundreds of stares, dozens of comments, at the peak of rush hour, when instead she could stay at work a few hours later, and walk home in relative peace?

He stayed at work late because he had no one and nothing to go home to, because work was his home. She stayed because she felt threatened outside of it. And it didn't matter that she could defend herself in nearly any situation she might find herself in—it seemed that she'd just grown weary of it all.

Or at least she looked weary, he thought as she finally looked up, forcing a smile onto her face as she passed the picture back to him. She looked tired. She looked like she'd had enough.

And he simply said the first thing that came to mind.

Jane, I think you're beautiful.

He'd said it quietly, but without an ounce of regret or embarrassment—it was the truth, after all—and that, it seemed, had been that. She had smiled a little at the compliment, whispering a hushed thank-you, and he had smiled back. Then they had both turned back to work, and for an hour or so, they'd prevailed with their various assignments in silence. Then the clock on his desk struck twelve, and for some reason, he got it into his head that they should toast the coming of the new day.

Her eyes had almost doubled in size when he'd pulled a bottle of scotch out of his bottom desk drawer, and he had laughed at her reaction. (You don't think I've been doing this job for eight years without having something on hand for the hard days, do you?) Though she'd initially refused a glass, he'd rolled her eyes, and put one in her hands anyway. When she didn't take more than a sip, he teased her about her lack of courage.

That had done it: she'd finished one glass, and then another.

At some point, they'd abandoned their work and migrated to the couch on the other side of the room, where they'd sat a little too close and drank a little too much. Together, they began feeding their burgeoning flirtation in earnest. First with little looks, then touches, and then...

A kiss.

She was the one to initiate it. She was the one to lean over, to invade his personal space, to touch the side of his cheek to make him look at her—as if he hadn't been already—and then she kissed him.

He didn't ask the questions audibly afterwards—Why now? Why me? Why here?—but no doubt she could see them. She smiled a little when she pulled back, as if still nervous of his reaction.

I've been thinking about doing that for a while, was all she said, and it was all he needed to hear. He was kissing her again in a second, swallowing her surprised laughter and transforming it into moans.

Things had moved quickly from there: she had pulled open his tie; he had pushed off her jacket; she had climbed into his lap; he had wrapped his arms around her tight to keep her there.

His hold was hardly necessary—she wasn't going anywhere, not tonight and maybe not ever—but she liked the feel of his arms wrapped around her anyway. She liked the way his touch was light, just skimming over the surface of her body, but his grip, when it found its home, was sure: on her hips, in her hair, around her ass. He never let her slip out from under his grasp, and she reveled in the way he grounded her like that, even as the movement of him inside her made her mind virtually depart from the rest of her body. She didn't know if sex was always like this—she had no memories to go on, nor had she ever talked to anyone about it—but she did know that if it was always like this with him, she never wanted to be with anyone else.

She knew the end had to be coming soon—she could feel pressure building inside her, and inside him too—and as it came closer, she found herself wondering how much longer they would have to wait afterwards, to do this again. In her growing bliss, she did not stop to think that maybe he wouldn't want a second time; all she wondered was where they would be, and how it would happen. Would they stay on his couch a second time? The floor? His desk? Or would they finally abandon the Bureau, as they should've done hours ago, and go home? To hers, or to his?

Her mind filled so full with questions that her orgasm, when it came, actually took her by surprise. She gasped aloud at the force of it, and moaned at the pleasant numbness and overwhelming excitement rushing through her veins, and in the back of her mind, she thought she heard him laugh in reply, and whisper something that sounded like, Finally. He came soon after, and for a few minutes after they were finished, they just sat there on his couch, arms wrapped around each other, foreheads bent to the other's shoulder, breathing.

Then he shifted a little, emitting a soft groan, and she took it as a cue to get off of him. She lifted one suddenly weak leg and then collapsed over onto her left side so she was no longer sitting on him, but next to him. For a minute, they just sat there beside one another and returned to earth.

Then she felt his hand on her leg. She looked over at him, and was surprised by the look she received in turn. He looked sleepy and peaceful almost to the point of childishness—she almost laughed at him. But then he opened his mouth.

I know we'll need to talk about this—hopefully when we're both fully sober—but while we're still not... He had taken a moment then, to look at her. His hand had moved to her inner thigh. And despite what they'd just done, she found herself praying to hear what he said next:

Do you want to come home with me?

A/N: If you have thoughts, reviews would be much appreacited! It's been forever since I've written for J&K, so I'd love to know how this turned out. :)