Author's Note: Um… fluff. No excuse. :)

"I don't like the taste of coffee."

Jane is standing casually in the doorway of her office, leaning against the doorframe with his ankles crossed and a steaming turquoise teacup in his hand. He is watching her, eyes crinkled at the corners and a half-smirk flickering across his lips, but Lisbon barely spares him a glance as she finishes going through the reports.

"So?" is all she says.

She frowns slightly at the last report, then shakes her head and places it on the top of the pile. One, two three, four five. Nice and neat and ready to go. There. All done.

Jane clears his throat subtly. She rolls her eyes at his childish need for attention.

"So, you shouldn't be drinking it," he continues.

A little surprised, and not a little confused–why would his tastes affect her drinks?–Lisbon raises her eyebrows at him. She grins somewhat at his audacity–what right does he have to tell her what to do?–and purposively curls her fingers around her mug of coffee.

"Oh, really," she says, more than asks, a little sarcastically.

She lifts the mug into the air, letting it hover by her lips, outright defying Jane's suggestion. She makes a show of breathing in the smell–rich and warm and bitter–and closes her eyes in contentment. She even lets out a quite hum.

When she opens her eyes again Jane is right in front of her chair, his lip curled in distaste.

"Really," he repeats, with a small grimace.

She takes a large sip, feels the warm liquid seeping over her tongue, down her throat–dark and hot and delicious, bittersweet and velvet and smooth.

Mmmm.

Nothing compares to her slow roasted Robusta coffee beans. Twice the caffeine and half the price of Arabica beans–and a million times more tasty than tea.

She tilts her face up to Jane and leans back in her chair.

"Why shouldn't I be drinking it?" she demands challengingly.

But she is still smiling, because, despite herself, she kind of… secretly enjoys their banter. And she feels in control, like she will win this round. There is no way–no way!–Jane can make her give up her drink of choice. So she smiles saucily, raises her eyebrows with a smirk, and brings the rim of the mug to her lips again.

Then he replies, as if it should be obvious, "Well, if you're going to be drinking it–" with a pointed look as she defiantly takes a sip "–I'm not going to be kissing you."

She chokes on her coffee.

But at least she regains control of herself fast enough that she doesn't drop the mug.

(Which is good. These pants were expensive.)

In fact, the only indication that he's caught her off guard is the small strangled sound from her throat, the muffled cough, and the flush spreading down face. In fact, she covers her up reaction pretty well–a split second later, she has (carefully) put her mug back on the table, and is regarding Jane suspiciously. Her eyebrow raises in confusion. A dubious smile flits across her lips.

"When have you ever kissed me?" she challenges incredulously.

Jane shrugs casually, and waves off the question as if it isn't important.

"Well, you never know," he says nonchalantly, "I could always start."

He is grinning now, a wide, pleased grin that knows he has won. Like the cat that ate the canary. She glares at him with disbelief, and scoffs in his face.

"Yeah, right."

Because they have flirted before, yes. Even she will admit that. But they have never gone past flirting.

So she has nothing to worry about. So there. She's won.

But then he is suddenly… right in front of her face. His eyes are so close she can count the individual flecks in his irises, and his pearly white teeth are sending her a Chesire-wide grin. Startled, she reflexively yanks her head back, caught off guard by his proximity.

Her heart is not racing. Her cheeks are not flushed. She is not suddenly, inexplicably, nervous–or excited.

And she is definitely not in denial.

"Don't tempt me, Lisbon," he warns.

His voice is light, but his eyes are compellingly dark. She is not suddenly finding it very, very hard to breathe.

"You wouldn't dare," she retorts, knowing that he will back down.

As far as she knows, he hasn't kissed anyone in… well, a really, really long time.

He would never go through with it.

"Oh, wouldn't I?" he challenges.

Her heart leaps with nerves.

He wouldn't.

… Right?

His eyes dart down to her lips, and her breath catches in her throat. Her pulse is pounding in her head, blocking out all other sounds, making it very hard to think. Her eyes are slipping shut against her will, and her skin is tingling, and she is reaching forwards, stretching, yearning, longing–

Because maybe he is going to go through with it–

And, oh, God, she wants this, she realizes now, so badly–

And then his lips graze hers. And even though she had been expecting it, she jumps about a foot into the air, and lets out a yelp of surprise–

–because, well–Jane is kissing her.

Actually… kissing her.

Her heart lurches in her chest.

She wonders for an insane second whether she really does taste like coffee.

Then she's not wondering much of anything at all. Because his lips are on hers, and she can smell him, feel him, taste him, and oh, God, this is way better than she had ever imagined it would be.

(Not that she had imagined it. …Much.)

His hands rise to cup her cheeks as he leans down into the kiss, and her own hands stroke along his wrists, linger over his fingers that have been bare for a long time now.

Her heart is pounding so hard she thinks it might break her rib cage, and her skin is tingling, and her head is spinning, and she can't get enough–

She's breathing in needy little gasps that would have made her feel embarrassed except she can feel Jane isn't faring much better, and they're drowning in each other, and why the hell has it taken them so long to do this?

–Then there is a knock at the door, and Lisbon's heart jumps right out of her throat into Jane's. She jerks back, shooting a startled glance at her office door–thank God the blinds are closed–then meets Jane's gaze with panic.

Oh, God. They are at the office.

What were they doing?

Anyone could have seen them!

"Boss?" comes a disembodied voice from behind the door.

But Jane doesn't look panicked. If anything, he seems kind of… self-satisfied. Pleased with the effect he has obviously had on her.

Smug bastard. She will so never admit he won this round.

"No one's in here, Rigsby!" he calls out calmly to the closed door.

Lisbon can practically hear Rigsby's confusion.

"But–then how–?"

"Really, no one's here," repeats Jane.

"…Oh–kay….?"

Footsteps head away from the door.

Jane hasn't removed his gaze from Lisbon's once, and throughout the conversation she has been silently staring back. Now that her head is clear, she is suddenly filled with doubt, and fear, and uncertainty, and apprehension, and pretty much every other negative adjective in the dictionary.

But Jane is smiling softly, contently, smugly (jerk!). And as he leans in again, she finds herself slowly smiling back.

"I thought you didn't like the taste of coffee," she mummers teasingly just before their lips meet.

"Oh, I think I could get used to it…" he breathes.

Kissing someone feels delightfully weird when you're grinning, is her last coherent thought.

Because, after all, maybe she did win this round.