I have to confess up front that this is another "fantasy" tag. But there was so much playfulness and so many delightful little "trust falls" between Jane and Lisbon in this episode that I've got to believe there's a little more going on off camera, even if it is completely platonic. The footnotes are definitions of terms to be found at the end of the piece. Other words that may be unfamiliar are defined in context.
CADENCIA
- In dance, a subtle shifting of weight from foot to foot in place and in time with the music, done by the man before beginning a dance to give the lady the rhythm he intends to dance and to ensure that she will begin with him on the correct foot.
"You coming or not?"
She just barely kept herself from jumping, he had caught her that off guard as she stared down into her mug of tea. She had poured the liquid, relishing the hot-water sound it made hitting the ceramic then had been mesmerized by its golden-brown depths, thinking over events of the last two days, especially a moment that had taken place in her office just that morning.
The tea was undoubtedly only lukewarm now, but she didn't want to risk his questions by pouring the whole thing down the drain. It was bad enough that she had lingered, obviously not following him to his couch quickly enough. He stepped to her side, and she knew she couldn't hide her face in the cabinets any longer.
"Just waiting for it to cool," she said nonchalantly.
When he had finished pouring his own second cup, she grasped her drink with both hands and turned away from the counter as he did the same, and for only an instant they were facing one another, so close that her arms, folded against her torso as she brought her mug to her lips almost brushed his chest. They turned and walked in sync to the bullpen, and she realized along the way that he was matching his steps to hers, his upper body turned slightly toward her giving the impression that he was walking sideways. As they passed through the doorway, his hand came to rest lightly on the small of her back, barely stroking. But that, too, was only for an instant.
Something was up. She knew he wouldn't tell her outright if she asked—he just had that look—so she decided to bide her time. He didn't seem like he was about to do anything else that would land her in hot water.
Once inside the bullpen, he hovered, just long enough to allow her to pass so that he might cross behind her, positioning himself—she thought—so that he might take his customary place on the couch to her left as she sat in the middle. Lengthening his last two steps so that he was at her side, they each turned a slow one-eighty, their fronts again so close as to almost be touching before they both lowered themselves onto the cushions, again in perfect sync. She raised her mug to take a drink even as Jane did the same. On a hunch, she crossed her legs, right over left. When he followed suit, even stretching his toes to a point as she did, she turned to him in a sudden pique.
"Are you mocking me?" she asked, incredulous at his immaturity, even if he was feeling satisfaction about his recent triumph over injustice.
"Now would I do that?" he returned, all round-eyed innocence, even as he tilted his head to mirror the angle of her own.
"Jane," she said in warning, and, "Lisbon," he countered, matching her tone.
Deciding she wouldn't win, especially if she didn't even know which game he was playing, and that it was better not to feed his nonsense, she turned resolutely to face front and tried not to grimace as she took a drink of her tea. She could feel him still looking at her, contemplating her. She hated when he did that. It was never good. But he wouldn't look away. Her arm shifted slightly, only small movement would do in the slim space between them. But she had been caught at close quarters before, and her elbow still found its mark and with more than a little sharpness. She smiled into her tea with her own self-satisfaction at his breathy "oof".
"Wrong step," he said quietly, rubbing his rib.
"What?" she inquired sharply, turning to catch his expression.
"Nothing," he answered too quickly.
She watched him as he uncrossed his legs and bent to place his cup and saucer on the floor to the left side of his feet. He then straightened, recrossing his legs elegantly, this time left over right. He languidly stretched his right arm up and over to rest it on the sofa back just behind her head, his change in position and movements causing him to lean to her slightly. Reflexively, she leaned back and away.
"Jane?" Her voice broke on his name, high and light with apprehension.
"Are you all right?" he asked, ignoring her wariness as he searched her eyes.
"Why?" She never liked it when someone perceived anything close to weakness in her.
"You poured a perfectly good mug," he swallowed against the word, "of tea then stared into it for several minutes as if you expected an answer to float to the top. You let it turn tepid, Lisbon."
"Oh well," she drawled sarcastically, "I must be dying then."
She rolled her eyes and turned from him to take another sip, not wanting to even consider that it was a deflective move against the discomfort she felt at his continued invasion of her space. He sighed in annoyance, and she felt as well as heard his fingertips drum once on the leather behind her head. This was the turning point. He was deciding whether to drop the whole thing or pursue.
"You feel pretty good about the case, don't you? Fighting injustice, saving the day and the damsel in distress?" she said, hoping to put him off.
"Eh. Not so much distress," he grunted. Now she could feel his eyes moving over her profile. "Ardiles got it half right. She did cheat."
She stiffened at the prosecutor's name, and Jane's sudden shift in manner was evidence he had caught it. If she found it difficult to face him before, it was impossible now. Here it comes.
"He seemed pleased." His voice was casual and calm, but even just seeing him in her peripheral there was no mistaking the intensity of his stare. "Even paid up on the bet." He paused momentarily at her widened eyes then went on before she could question him. "I'd say he was even happy about it . . . if trolls can be happy."
"Happy with you," she mumbled into her hovering mug. Sometimes it was hard only remembering what it was like to have been golden, once upon a time.
"What did he say to you?"
The sudden edge in his voice surprised her, but that was replaced almost instantly with alarm that he might go on the warpath to save her again. She did turn to face him now, her hand going to his chest to push him back a bit so they wouldn't literally be nose-to-nose.
"Nothing that hasn't been said before. Or that won't be said again. Nothing I can't handle. Don't you say or do anything." He glared at her, eyes searching hers again, and she could tell he was unconvinced. She could see the thunderclouds gathering and knew she had to stop him in this earliest stage or he would burn completely out of her control. She had a few weapons of her own in dealing with him and didn't hesitate to pull out the one that never failed her.
"Please, Jane," she softly pleaded.
His face relaxed, and she could tell he was on the verge of unwilling compliance. But when he broke his gaze from hers and lowered his eyes, she thought he might have something more to say on the matter . . . until she realized he was watching her fingertips now softly stroking against the top of his vest. When she suddenly stopped the motion and jerked her hand a mere inch away, he looked up at her and grinned. Piqued again, she curled a tiny fist and punched his chest with the outside edge of it.
"Jane," was uttered warningly again. His grin turned innocent and he leaned away. She moved forward, not allowing the space between them to diminish in what she hoped he understood was a threatening move. She realized she had missed the mark when his grin widened and crinkled all the way up and into his eyes.
"And carpa(1)," he breathed so quietly she thought he might not have meant to speak it aloud.
Suddenly, something clicked in her brain belatedly, as was so often the case in their intercourse. Eve Walberry had tried to get closer to her distant husband, Peter, by learning to tango. She leaned away from him and placed her mug on the corner of his desk then sank back into the couch, turning only her head to face him.
"Is that what all of this has been about?" She asked, motioning one hand in a sweep from where they sat to include the walk from the break room. "The tango?"
"Tango?" Now he was wary.
"All of this . . . walking with me from the break room. Staying in step."
He looked all innocence again, and she huffed in exasperation.
"Caminada, adelante, cangrejo, carpa.(2) Tango steps." She ignored his annoyingly congratulatory look.
"And caricias, Lisbon. Don't forget caricias." He rolled out the word for "caress" twice, as if he were doing so with his tongue.
"Oh, yeah. As we walked through the door."
"You, too." He motioned languidly toward his chest.
"That wasn't—" she checked herself at his "oh come now" look. "I wasn't doing a dance," she finished lamely.
"Not a dance step."
"No."
"In no way part of the routine."
"Nuh-uh."
"Just a happenstance."
"That's it."
"Something you did without thinking."
"Exactly."
"Almost subconscious."
"I guess."
"Perhaps Freudian."
She faced front again with a glare and reached for her mug, drawing it to her lips.
"Don't drink that stuff," he arrested her softly.
She frowned down at the mug where she held it inches away from her lips and her eyes momentarily went out of focus when his hand covered the top of the cup and pulled it from her grasp.
"Arrepentida(3)," he whispered before standing and heading toward the break room.
"Fresh cup?" he asked over his shoulder in an irritatingly normal voice.
Bailarin(4), she mentally accused. But aloud she said, "No thanks. I should get going."
She put her hands on either side of her, ready to push herself up off the couch, hesitating at the thought of the comparisons between their relationship and the exotic dance. The steps, the caminada, sometimes adelante, sometimes atras, foreward and back; the merry-go-round feel of the calesita that left her dizzy with trying to follow his moves; boleo, the two of them working an angle (She didn't like to think of it as a con.), whirling together in a tight circle, her sharp backward kicks now as adept as his; struggling over who would take the marcar, the lead, because she knew there were times that was exactly what he wanted in everything but appearances. And the many llevadas, each of them supporting, even carrying the other.
Suddenly his shoes appeared in her vision. She hadn't even realized she was staring at the floor. When she looked up, he was leaning back against the desk, hands in trouser pockets, legs slanted just to her left, ankles crossed.
"So. What did Ardiles say?"
She considered him a moment, looking him in the eye. Neither gaze wavered.
"That I'm the problem."
He nearly went slack-jawed in shock, and it amused her no end to see him bite the inside of his cheek at knowing she had seen the almost slip.
"Troll," he growled in nasty disgust.
"I know," she said airily, looking away and shrugging carelessly. "—but what are ya gonna do?"
He growled again, this time low in his throat, and her eyes jerked back to him.
"You're not going to do anything," she reminded him, even though he hadn't expressly promised.
"Does he have any idea . . .?" The question trailed off. It would've proven only rhetorical anyway. They stayed like that, each searching for hesitation as well as affirmation in the other. The hidden secrets they shared, so many now, were too important, too dangerous for uncertainty. He smiled, a mix of mischief and defiance.
"We're parejas.(5) Have been, practically since the cabeceo.(6) Nothing they can do to separate us now."
"There's plenty they can do. Namely make me a planchadoras if they could."
"Never," he huffed indignantly on her behalf. "You a wallflower? I'd never allow it."
She couldn't help but smile at his bravado, knowing it had substance. He grinned again and pointed at her lips, and she knew she had finally given him what he had said he wanted. Red John may still be his obsession, though that was somewhat muddy now, but she had the distinct impression sometimes that she was his pet project. He extended his hand, and she grasped it, allowing him to pull her up. Once standing, she withdrew and, thrusting both hands into her front jean pockets, started for the door, eyes following the movements of her feet. Again, Jane matched his steps to hers.
"Figures you're a tango expert. Why am I not surprised?"
"More surprising that you are."
She smiled softly, watching both of their feet moving together and choosing not to take offense. "Good to know there's still a little mystery left."
"Just because you're translucent doesn't mean you lack mystery, Lisbon. The two often aren't related at all."
Her brow furrowed, more unsteady than put out at his quiet earnestness, and she was relieved when he once again set them right.
"Although those boots have me in a quandary. Where are the sensible loafers?"
She stopped and peered at her high-heeled footwear as if noticing it for the first time.
"You don't like my boots?" she inquired, her voice almost childlike then clicked her heels together twice. "Guess they're not really suited for tango."
"More like flamenco. Do you, Lisbon? Flamenco? All that clapping and stomping and anger?"
She swiveled her eyes to his then, leaning her head far back. "Only if I lead, Jane."
He smiled and motioned them forward, accompanying her to the elevator. She entered the car, knowing he would be remaining behind a while longer, perhaps all night. But when she turned to offer a good night, his hand curved around the door to hold it open a bit longer.
"One thing in all of this that did have me stumped."
"And what would that be, pareja?"
"Peter Walberry. Did he seem the tango type to you? He looked a bit . . . sterile."
"I don't know. He did bribe an employee to lie for him."
"Yes." He looked down, still contemplating.
"Do you ever go?" he asked, suddenly, impulsively. At her confused squint, he clarified. "Tango."
"No. Don't have the time." She didn't want to explain that it had been years (a relic from a failed and forgotten relationship) and she didn't know anyone who danced and didn't like the idea of going to a club in hopes of trying it with a stranger. While the unknown could be exciting, the tango was best danced with a practiced partner, someone who knew your tells. She didn't want to explain that either.
He tilted his head quizzically, and she hoped he saw the mystery rather than the translucence because she was absolutely certain at least some of her thoughts had trailed across her face.
"Good night, Lisbon," he said distractedly, releasing the door.
"Good night, Jane," came the reply as the barrier closed between them.
Downstairs, she stepped into the cool night air and drew her jacket more closely around her, laughing to herself at the realization that she didn't need to go in search of a dance. Jane was right: they were parejas, practically from the beginning for all her angry posturing. She had known he could close cases for her even if the look is his eye was as wild as his reputation. And he had known her personal and professional pride would never allow her to throw in the towel on having him in her unit. In the years since their first meeting and early cases, the two of them circling like deadly cats of different species, there had come to be more in it for both of them in the form of friendship, trust and respect. She had come to know the steps. They both had. And she believed him when he said he would never allow a cambia in the dance card.
END
FOOTNOTES:
(1) Carpa – The tent: A figure created when the man leads the lady onto one foot then steps back away from her, causing her to lean at an angle to his frame
(2) Caminada, adelante, cangrejo, carpa. – Step, foreward, cross, lean.
(3) Arrepentida – Repentance; a family of steps which allow a couple to back away from a collision in a minimal amount of space and on short notice
(4) Bailarin – an accomplished or professional dancer
(5) Parejas – partners
(6) Cabeceo – a traditional way of selecting dance partners from a distance by using eye contact and head movement