I liked this episode, mostly because I always like any glimpse into Lisbon's past (I choose to ignore the Chummer—too dark and unhappy.). But as I watched, I periodically got the idea—mostly from Jane's reactions to Greg from the first instant they came into contact—that when the show ends a few years down the road, we'll find out that Lisbon and Jane entered into a clandestine romantic (if not sexual) relationship sometime during Season 4 and it was kept such a secret that not even the viewers knew it!
As for the previews for this week's episode . . . Is everybody up for a little bit of cr-r-razy?
THE COMPANY SHE KEEPS
She couldn't wait to get there, to achieve the security of her office, to be surrounded by her photos and commendations, the evidence of her successes. Gladstone had been processed, Wainwright had called her upstairs for a pat on the back and all that was left was the few odds and ends, including her signature on the final report before turning everything over to the D.A. She had sent the team home, praising them for a job well done, assuring Van Pelt there was nothing left to do, congratulating Rigsby once again on his competency as a father and wondering over Cho's scuffed knuckles. Clearing the elevator, her steps turned toward her haven, where earlier—knowing what the end of the day would be like—she had flipped the switches in the light array to her liking.
The fixture on her desk was lit, the deep brushed chrome shade blocking most of the brilliance, shaping what remained into a glowing pool on her desktop. The only other light in the room was from a single recessed cell directly above where she sat, a low-wattage bulb she had requested from an accommodating custodian that cast a golden glow over her workspace, leaving the rest of the room in near darkness. The effect was a combination of welcome and isolation that suited her.
Finally she cleared the threshold, made sure to pull the door closed behind her, stepped to her desk and bent to lift her laptop from the deep bottom left desk drawer in preparation for settling in for some much-needed quiet and the calming influence of uninterrupted work.
"It was nice to meet your first . . .," a lazy disembodied voice floated from the darkness, pausing in what she knew was feigned uncertainty. Her eyes narrowed in irritated anticipation—she didn't have to wait long. "—your 'ground zero' as it were."
Her knee jerked sideways, snapping the drawer shut. "What are you talking about?" The question was out, high and tense with exasperation before she could swallow it back.
"You know . . . Jeff in narcotics, that other guy in Vice or whatever, the string of walking wounded you undoubtedly left in San Francisco. And, of course, more recently—"
"It's not like that," she blurted before he could continue. Sometimes it wasn't so great being close to someone who knew nearly everything about you. More quietly and to the point she clarified, "I'm not like that."
"Oh, my dear. You're a flirt. A tease. A leader-onner-of-men. A hundred years ago you would've been considered a hussy. A strumpet. A trollop." The last was punctuated with a pop of the "p".
"That is not true," she declared. "Every relationship—" she paused at his snort. "Every acquaintance starts out with a given, that there will be things that work and things that don't, experiments, explorations. Sometimes it goes somewhere and sometimes it doesn't. It's all a wait-and-see."
"Your wait-and-see is more of a don't-get-your-hopes-up."
"Jane," she ground out in irritation.
He had worked her into a nice huff, but he knew she was getting to her limit, reaching that point much sooner than usual. The case was solved and not too late—not late enough for her to be so weary as to need to head for home. He would hate to push her into leaving sooner than need be and decided it was time to wind her down with a mind toward what he was really after. There was a wuffle of worn fabric against expensive leather as he sat up and scooted to her end of the couch, bringing himself into the circle of light that surrounded her.
"This has been a trying case, Lisbon. Tea's the thing, I think. Just a cup. While you finish up."
He hadn't exactly asked her anything, but when he sat on the couch, his head cocked to one side, watching her, she realized he was waiting for her to respond.
"Tea does sound good," she gave in softly. "But just a cup."
He slapped his knees and stood, rubbing his hands together and quickly striding from the room before she could think better of it. She had begun to do just that when he returned, a steaming earthenware mug in one hand and cup and saucer balanced in the other. She realized he must have had things ready in anticipation of her giving in.
"Lots of sugar," he said, offering the mug to her. His eyes rose to hers and he solemnly added in explanation, "for comfort."
She couldn't help smiling just a little at his consideration even though she was certain things were bound to get volatile before she left for the evening. With Jane, tea was never just tea. He used it for everything from seduction to blackmail to mining for information. And this case had offered up what she knew for him would be one big nugget.
They stood together drinking their orange pekoe, scarcely a foot apart, Lisbon long accustomed to Jane's invasion of her space. She hummed her approval at the first hot, sweet sip, and he raised his drink to her in salute before taking his first taste. Jane moaned softly his own appreciation of the rich, tangy flavor, his eyes following the delicate cup as he settled it on the saucer, barely swallowing before he spoke.
"So. Why did you run?" At her soft, startled gasp, he rephrased, knowing the original question was closer to the truth. "Why did you call off your engagement?"
She lowered her mug to the desktop and one index finger circled the rim as she concentrated on the dark brew for a moment. Then, shrugging as if to throw off something unseen, she answered quietly, "Like I told you, I didn't know what I wanted. I was too young."
Unable to resist, he grinned down at her. "So what's your excuse now?"
Her eyes shot to his, and her whole body flexed, squaring off against him.
"I mean," he continued, "I understand the former may still apply . . ."
Her tiny hands fisted at her sides and she rocked back. He'd seen that pattern of movement before and braced himself. But the punch didn't come. Instead she closed her eyes and shook her head. The soft chuckle surprised him.
"You're one to talk," she muttered. She opened her eyes and let them sparkle up at him, her voice clear and innocent. "How much older are you?"
"We're not talking about me, dear, and I'm not leaving a string of broken hearts behind me."
She opened her mouth to retort then apparently thought better of it and closed it firmly as if sealing her lips against the words that had risen suddenly. He loved bickering with Lisbon, whether on even ground or in this style—by turns riling her up and soothing her, ultimately stroking her until she settled back into her more peaceful self. He even enjoyed it when she turned the tables on him and got a little back. But her refusal to rise to whatever unwitting bait he had thrown out was evidence he had not anticipated how personal the game could become. It was one of their fundamental differences: Lisbon never bit back her words to protect herself.
Knowing they needed a change in direction but not wanting to abandon the topic, he picked up her tea mug, softly forced it back into her hand and, taking her gently by the elbow, guided her to the couch. After depositing her at her end, he took his place in the corner, turning bodily to face her.
Lisbon realized that though they both now sat in the shadows, she could still make out his silhouette against the vague illumination of parking lot and street lights coming through the bullpen windows. She knew he must see her the same way, outlined against the lamp behind her. She relaxed almost immediately in the intimacy and anonymity of the setting, not bothered at all that he had probably planned it just that way.
"This case . . . seeing Greg . . . it opened up a lot of old wounds." She laughed softly, and he knew it was at herself. "Dredged up some crazy thoughts."
"The what-ifs?" he coaxed.
"Yeah," she admitted. Did psychiatrists know about this lighting thing? "But that part was fairly short-lived," she added.
"I have to say I don't wonder at it. There's your old flame, your first love, married to someone else. A brood of kids—"
"I don't think three constitutes a 'brood', Jane."
"—and Rigsby's wearing his parenthood on his sleeve. Or his shoulder as it happened—"
"He didn't even try to wipe it off. Like it was a badge of honor or something."
"—and then the former love of your life goes and incriminates himself to save his errant wife—"
"Greg was always like that. Giving and generous, loyal in love."
"—and you're stuck sorting him out so he isn't treated too roughly, taking care of him, but not too much so the report doesn't look like you were soft on him—"
"I wasn't stuck doing anything. I was happy to help him out."
"—then what did you have to do next but track down his wife and wring the truth out of her so you could clear Greg, wasting an entire afternoon—"
"Wasting?"
"—while I was left to bait the trap, bring the players together, keep everybody in one place with the ruse of searching the house—"
"Now, wait a minute!"
"—doing the real work while you were all caught up and busy with your old boyfriend."
"Busy with my . . ." she squeezed the words out through clenched teeth, but something dawned on her before she could lay into him. She turned to face him squarely, her right knee crooked and right arm hooked over the back cushions of the couch.
"Jane," she said unable to keep the mirth from her voice. "Were you jealous?"
"Jealous? Me? Why would I be jealous? Honestly, Lisbon, sometimes the way your mind works baffles me."
She watched his silhouette raise the teacup to his lips and knew he could see hers lean her head over into her upraised right hand.
"You take off all the time. You leave me interviewing people you've already discounted as suspects, witnesses whose testimonies have nothing to do with the murder. You've marooned me dozens of times—"
She took a drink, this one long and deep, relishing it.
"—but when I leave you, especially for something that might be personal, and you've got nobody to watch your great play or see how brilliant you are . . . 'busy with Greg' . . . You said that in the car on stakeout. I thought you were teasing me, but you were sulking!"
"Sulking! Now I'm insulted. I let you be 'busy with Greg'. I knew you needed it, needed to take care of it yourself, to spend some time with him even if just to interrogate him, to see more what kind of man he'd become. And when I knew you'd had enough I reeled you back in for the finale. Sulking indeed."
She threw back her head and crowed with laughter, and he decided to let her have it. She was, after all, partly right. They both came back to the quiet, each sipping their tea until—what Jane deemed to be the right moment—he so softly repeated his earlier question.
"Why did you really break off the engagement, Lisbon?"
She shifted, her right hand lowering to join her left in grasping the mug in her lap. Though it was too dark for her to actually see it, she gave the impression she was again studying her tea, her hair curtaining either side of her face. He had to lean close to hear her response, barely more than a whisper.
"What I said before was true, but . . . Greg was there for me in a lot of ways. He deserved to be more than just a . . ."
Her head fell a little to one side, and he knew it pained her to admit it.
"An escape? A way out?" he gently prompted. He wasn't sure exactly of the timing and sequence of events and where Greg fit in with raising her brothers and protecting them and herself from an abusive father, broken by grief and alcohol. Jane had never had any qualms about nosing around in her professional past or her personal present. But for some reason, those violent and painful years of her adolescence had been off limits. He wouldn't hesitate to check her personnel file or old newspaper articles, even her mandated therapy records. But anything of her childhood or her relationship with either of her parents he would only hear straight from her, each fragment regarded as a gift, a sign of hard-won trust, borne unjudged, kept secret and safe.
"Yes. I loved him—" she hurried to add then ended on a regretful sigh. "But yes."
"You owed more to yourself, too."
One slim shoulder lifted in a shrug, and she raised her mug and drained it before leaning over to settle it on the floor behind her foot. Her movements conveyed disagreement coupled with an unwillingness to argue, and his irritation at her self-deprecation—obviously a pattern learned in her youth though not much practiced any longer—fueled his quiet outburst.
"I mean it, Lisbon. You deserved better."
She rose in defense of her former friend and fiancé. "Greg was a great guy, and—"
"He didn't come after you," he blurted out without thinking but couldn't regret it because having said the words then measured them, he knew they were right. Still, when Lisbon stiffened, he thought he should smooth the sharper edges of what he'd meant. But Lisbon surprised him again.
"No," she sighed. "But probably by the time he had decided to follow and after the time it would've taken him to find me . . ."
"You wouldn't have wanted him?"
"Something like that. Probably," she confessed.
He took a final drink of his tea, grimacing at the lukewarm, and set cup and saucer on the long file cabinet just behind and to his right.
"You deserve to be particular too." He'd spoken the words low and quiet, too serious he knew, but he felt no risk of exposure, cloaked as they were in shadow.
"You say that as if I'm some kind of prize," she quipped drily.
"Yes," he said, further emboldened by the darkness, "I do."
"Well," she drawled, "I can't be too particular, judging by the company I keep."
It was his turn to laugh, both at her words and because she had managed to lighten what was fast becoming too weighty a conversation. She rose from the couch, collected their tea things and carried them down the silent hall to the darkened break room, opting to add them to the partial dishwasher load rather than take the time to clean them by hand. She walked back to her office, straight to the desk and, intensely aware of Jane still sitting on the couch, initialed three forms and signed the final case report. Tucking everything into the file folder, she turned to look at him, her eyes now accustomed to the lower light.
He sat, still only little more than an outline, statue-like, apparently deep in thought, seemingly studying the perfectly shaped fingernails on one hand. He shook himself, rubbed his hands up and down his thighs and turned to look at her as if he'd just noticed her return. She walked toward him and, stepping back into the shadows, held out her hand to him. He took it in his and looked up, wondering if she realized that some of the light from the bullpen window fell in a wide ribbon across her eyes, catching the sparkle there as she looked down at him.
"Thanks, Jane."
"For . . .?"
"The tea . . . and everything."
They each gave the other's hand a squeeze then released, Lisbon turning to gather her keys and cell phone from her desk before leaving for the night, the sound of Jane settling into the couch behind her. Tomorrow she really needed to find out if he was actually living anywhere. She clicked out her desk lamp and raised her hand to the switch by the door.
"Leave that one on," he said, his voice muffled, she knew because he'd thrown his arm across his face.
She would have teased him about being afraid of the dark, but instead she smiled indulgently. Hadn't she come seeking comfort from that bit of light herself? She couldn't begrudge him the same, even if only at its fringes. Besides, she knew he had come to regard this place as something of a haven too, even the darker parts of it in contrast to the persistent midnight that she knew held him in its grip. And the thought warmed her. She sighed a good night over her shoulder and left him to the safety of these friendly shadows.
END