Michael thanks one of the cops and walks over to Jane. He apologizes, and says he has to stick around and "wrap" some things up. She already solved your case, Mike. Does she have to give herself head, too? Michael tells her that some guy named Abrams will drive her home. Can't this girl get a car? Can't she drive herself? "Careful," Michael says to her as she climbs out of the back of the ambulance. Shut up, asshole. She just fought a crazy serial killer and escaped a fire. She's got it down a step. Ugh. "Jane," Michael says. "I almost lost you tonight." Jane repeats, "No, you didn't. No, you didn't." He means in the fire, not to the monkey, girl. Jane says she's there now, and everything's okay. "Okay?" Michael repeats. "No, no, everything is not okay. Think about it. All our 'being sensible' and 'let's not rush into anything.' It's wrong. I was wrong." Michael whispers, "I want you to marry me, Jane." Again: "Marry me." Jane answers with a long, shuddery, confused sigh, so Michael stutters an apology, and says it's been a long night. He says they should just get her home. He puts her in a car, once again telling her to be careful. Maybe you should watch yourself go and buy a ring, mister. What kind of proposal was that? You're obviously hoping she'll marry you and quit being a cop, what with the whole "Everything is not okay" bullshit. And you aren't offering to take her home, or let her stay on the case she solved. And you aren't offering your own place. Why won't Jane say anything? Michael says he'll come over as soon as he can and they'll talk. Jane, mute as Tarzan, lets herself be driven away from the case she cracked, and the man who's stealing her thunder.

Head MWF finds Clayton and asks, "What now?" Clayton exhales and says, "He can't be dead." That's probably a pretty safe bet, this being the pilot and all. "Keep looking." I think I see a tear in Clayton's eye!

Jane's place. Bathroom. We hear the shower water get turned off. At that same second, Jane opens the curtain. She's already wrapped up in her towel, her hair dry enough to swing around her shoulders. Brilliant. Jane stares at herself in the mirror, as all women torn between two men do. She hears a thump in the other room. Jane pulls her robe tighter, and turns off the bathroom light, to draw attention to herself. She grabs her nearby gun and sees that her bedroom window is open. She jumps into her bedroom, gun raised, and of course, Tarzan is standing there. They're bathed only in moonlight. He's covered in soot, with two gentle scratches near his eye. She's panting. He's waiting. "Oh, my God. You're all right," she finally says. He smiles. She runs up to him, tossing her gun onto the bed. She breathes and laughs in his face, and immediately realizes he can't stay in the city. Her eye makeup is awesome for having just taken a shower. She says they have to get him back home. "No," he says. Jane says that with everyone thinking he's dead, now's his chance to escape. "No," he says again. "I don't belong there." But you're Tarzan. Of the Jungle. Oh, wait. That's George. "What do you mean?" Jane soap-opera-acts. He leans in: "I belong with you." She blinks three times. He leans in and sniffs. She rolls her eyes back in orgasmic glee. And suddenly, right when I'm starting to get tingly, fucking Avril fucking Lavigne starts her moaning. Crap! She sings that infernal "I'm With You" song as Tarzan sniffs and sniffs and rubs his head like my cat does to my hand in the morning when he wants to be fed. Jane's totally digging it, even though Tarzan's all sooty.