A/N: Forgive me if you got an email and/or read this when I first posted it. That'll teach me to rush. This is mostly rewritten, and I hope you like it. Set sometime vaguely after 3x09.
Staring out the window at the Quebec countryside, Leslie thinks about disasters; namely, the disaster that is her life any time it gets tangled up with Jake's. For three days she's been ensconced in the passenger seat of the GTO while Jake drives them barrelling over Canada's backroads en route to Toronto.
They must have a pretty good reason for embarking on such a journey, right? Depends what you consider "good." Jake and Leslie happened to be working the same case (as if that's rare or something) and because they are sort of friends now, they helped each other out. Exchanging information, sure, working with the rest of Doyle & Doyle to track down this art thief, that's all great. But when their suspect, Murphy, decided to skip town and Jake and Leslie got all up in the middle of his escape, the situation escalated and things turned personal. That still isn't adequate cause for driving to Toronto, but Jake and Leslie make such terrible choices when they're together.
But she looks back at him and he meets her eyes and smiles and she just sighs, because. No matter how bad they are (for each other or for the world at large), she can't exactly argue with the way he makes her feel. Plus they're in the middle of nowhere, Quebec, so there really isn't any point getting depressed about it now.
She turns her back to the door, folds her legs up on the seat and braces her bare feet against the centre console. The window of the GTO is cold against her back and Jake smirks down at her pink-polished toes, but she likes to look at him (honestly).
"What are you at?"
"You know this is crazy, right?"
He cocks his eyebrow at her, looking far too sure of himself, and says, "You want to turn around?"
"Please. We're going to catch the bastard." She faces forward again, tucks her legs beside her, and nibbles on her lip. Three days of driving, sleeping in motels (separate beds), and eating in diners. You'd think she could get something done other than mentally kicking herself over and over, but it's too hard to focus on a book (what do people do on road trips?) and her mind won't stop racing along. At least Jake does occasionally let her drive (under duress), and sometimes she sleeps, but mostly this is way too much thinking time. The bulk, of course, being thoughts she can't exactly share with Jake. So she stares out the window and chews her lip and reads French signs. A road trip to track down an art thief (with her, uh, male friend?) sure sounds romantic, but the reality of the situation could use some movie magic.
That night they stay in a motel just across the Ontario border. Jake calls home as soon as they get checked in, and Leslie goes to have a shower. She comes out of the washroom in wet hair and PJs, burrowing into bed with the blankets up to her ear and her back to Jake. She's not mad or anything; it's just too hard (ridiculously) to sit up in bed with Jake a few feet away. So she tries to sleep, and instructs her brain not to dream about him (because that always works).
Just before dusk the next day, they hit town. A motel in the suburbs will do for the night, and Jake and Leslie spend the evening on speaker phone with Mal and Rose, spreading relevant documents over one bed and sketching out their plan of attack. Neither of them gets much sleep; Jake paces by the door while Leslie counts cracks on the ceiling.
Come morning they drive into the city. It's a beautiful day and Jake hunches over the steering wheel, cursing the congested, car-lined streets. He may be a townie from birth, but St. John's and Toronto are worlds apart. His tunnel vision is on the road and Leslie watches him from the corner of her eye, torn between being amused and maybe a tiny bit intimidated. She's never seen this side of him, not that he's actually scary at all, because he's still Jake. Just a really grumpy and single-minded Jake, too intent on the roads to even flirt with her. Yeah, mostly amused. Still she keeps her own eyes out the window and doesn't say a word since backseat driving is obviously not in her best interests right now.
Across the street from the dealer they park and try to look like this isn't a stakeout. Jake says, "We should act like a couple having a fight," and Leslie sighs and looks out the window. He says, "Perfect, keep doing that," and she does. He glares out the other window, in the direction of the door they're watching, but she only glances at him once before his stupid pouty face nearly sends her into a giggle fit. Grouchy, mad, this guy is such a jerk, etc.
She watches her side of the street and happens to see Murphy first – strolling toward them with all the confidence in the world and carrying a painting-shaped bag. Leslie ducks down in her seat and Jake runs out to do the dirty work. When she looks up again, Murphy is on the ground, handcuffed to a bike stand with the painting attached. She just peeks over the dashboard as Jake calls it in, standing in the sun with his sunglasses on. He jogs the block back to the car and they put their fighting-couple faces on again, waiting for the cops to arrive and take care of things. It's not the most sophisticated way to deal with an art thief, but neither of them is really supposed to be there and Leslie absolutely cannot be associated with this.
A patrol car shows up twenty minutes later, cruising slowly and suspiciously up the street. Leslie has to try really hard to appear indifferent, which means she can't duck down or hide and has to pray no one looks their way. The uniforms stand around Murphy scratching their heads and looking confused, but eventually they load him into the backseat and put the painting in the trunk. When the car is gone, Jake looks at Leslie and raises his eyebrows.
She shrugs. "I guess we did it."
Jake puts his hand up for a high five and she touches her palm to his. "Not bad for an officer of the law, Sergeant."
"Yeah, and we never speak of this again." Glancing over at him, she narrows her eyes. "Don't make me regret it." He just winks, mimes zipping his lips, and pulls away from the curb.
Jake drives the GTO down to Queen Street, most of the tension gone from his shoulders, and parks so they can wander around in the sun by City Hall with a hotdog each. Newfoundland is admittedly a touch cloudy, but the hustle here hardly stops and neither Jake nor Leslie would particularly like to stay. After the third time a large crowd/person/dog nearly knocks Leslie off her feet, they hop back into the car. The suburb they're staying in is on the lake, and they go to sit on a bench and complain about the strange (lake vs. ocean) smell. The seagulls are pretty much the same, at least.
They are on good terms, friendly terms, but they don't honestly have that much to say to one another, at least not while so much is going unsaid. For a celebratory dinner out, with a couple flutes of champagne, they try to have actual conversations about things that won't turn into fights. It's a struggle. A lot of dinner is spent people-watching and, you know, eating. Leslie hates the awkwardness, but she doesn't know how to fix it, not like this. She looks at him every so often and her stomach just clenches up.
Back at the hotel, Jake calls home again and Leslie hides in the bathroom. She misses her family so much when she's around Jake's, but mostly she misses the idea of family. She's been on her own for so long now, and it's not like her family isn't there... but they sort of aren't, too.
When she comes out in her PJs, freshfaced (and washing off her makeup at night makes her feel so vulnerable), Jake is sitting on the edge of his bed and playing with his phone. He looks up at her but doesn't exactly smile, and she pauses in the doorway. Leaning against the doorjamb, she cocks her head and watches him as he watches her. She knows this look, just as he likely knows hers. But he doesn't move, and she's okay with that. It does sort of seem like her turn.
Padding across the floor in her bare feet, Leslie stops at Jake's knees. He looks up at her and she says, "Hi."
Jake says, "Hi," and lifts one hand to rest on the curve of her waist. His palm is hot through her t-shirt and she has to kiss him, so she does.
Apart, Jake looks at her and swallows. "Leslie..." and there's so much in that one word. His hand tightens on her waist and she steps forward, kneeling on the bed over his lap. She holds his face in her hands and kisses him again, and a second later he nudges her away enough to say, "Leslie, you have to be sure."
She looks straight into his eyes, the customary kissing-Jake blush heating up her face, and says, "I'm sure." That's enough for him to flip her onto the bed as she shrieks and giggles (okay, she's still a girl, give her a break) and his fingers are slipping under the hem of her shirt by the time she gets her bearings. She shivers as his hands trace a path over her skin, looking back at him with eyes bright when he checks that she's okay. Her overanalytic brain grows pleasantly foggy, splintering her thoughts into fragments of words and ideas. The last coherent sentence she forms is Okay, maybe this whole road trip thing is romantic after all and she's gone, the rest of the thought (Stupid and reckless, yes, but romantic too) lost to oblivion.
In the morning she will feel stupid, taking such a foolish risk with her job and life. Her heart, though? She's beginning to think that may not be such a risk after all.