I originally intended for this to be a single chapter one-shot, but the idea of Jane and Lisbon in a secret relationship wouldn't leave me alone. It seems the imagination wants what the imagination wants as well. Maybe in this case that's just another word for the heart two or three times removed. This is just three more chapters of nothing but romance—no plot, no crime—with mostly Jane and Lisbon and a bit of the team thrown in for good measure. The quote below has become the recurring mantra (I even went back and added it to chapter 1.). I wish I could find its origin. I posted the question on Ask-dot-com, and a responder said it's from one of Mary Shannon's voice overs on "In Plain Sight". But she begins the saying with, "It's been said—", so I think it comes from elsewhere. In any case, where Jane and Lisbon are concerned, it's certainly a lovely notion.
Without reason and without prudence, the heart wants what the heart wants, and more often than not, it will not be denied. –
2. WITHOUT REASON AND WITHOUT PRUDENCE
Van Pelt hated days like this and was glad they were very few and plenty far between. Something would hit, triggering a memory out of the blue—an ambush of incident, sound, observation—and she would watch Lisbon falter.
Rigsby had once asked her if she had read her co-workers' files, and she had replied in the negative. It wasn't an outright lie. She had never regarded Lisbon as co-anything until the last year when the two of them had become violently and inextricably bound by bullets, two from her lover's gun for Lisbon and two from her own for him. But she had read Lisbon's file early on, hoping to glean some insight that would ease her way into her boss's acceptance and trust. The scant information on Lisbon's family history had motivated a search that had taken her to the father's death certificate and autopsy report, including his blood-alcohol level and fresh abrasions across the knuckles of his right hand. This, in turn, was linked to the first responder's report in which mention was made of the contusions on the faces of two of the children, one a daughter. Running her boss's childhood address through the system unearthed a disturbance complaint filed by a neighbor the previous year. It hadn't been difficult to put the pieces together.
Shortly after joining the team, Van Pelt had accompanied Lisbon to the family home of a murder victim, a teenaged girl who had become the surrogate caregiver in the wake of her mother's death and her father's drunken neglect. Grace was the sole witness to Lisbon's vulnerability, the stench of alcohol, the father's listless expression, the unkempt air of the house coalescing in a wave of memory sensations that had literally brought the boss to her knees. Lisbon's controlled but hostile reaction to Van Pelt's concern had branded the subject permanently unmentionable. After today's incident, however, Grace—in spite of her own reticence these days to "do personal"—was once again wishing Lisbon would open up on the subject.
The investigation into the murder of an accountant at a downtown firm had all five team members heading to an area near Alkali Flats that was best known for its high assault rates. There they had hoped to find Roger Winslow's homeless, alcoholic brother—a recently released ex-con with a violent crimes record—with whom he had met on the night of his death. They had run Gerald Winslow to ground in the parking garage of an industrial park. Something had happened between Jane and Lisbon, one of their petty spats no doubt, and the senior agent had handed responsibility for the consultant's actions and safety over to Rigsby before striding into the concrete multi-level. Lisbon was three levels away from her nearest back-up when she was attacked. Grace was on the scene ahead of the other agents, her weapon drawn, but it was Jane who had somehow gotten there first, pulling Winslow off of Lisbon and beating him until he was nearly unrecognizable before Cho and Rigsby could pull him off. The whole thing had been unsettling, for far beyond the obvious reasons, but a pointed look from Jane had Van Pelt restraining her curiosity, silencing her questions about Lisbon's condition and apparent failure to protect herself adequately.
When their suspect breathalyzed at .27, Grace had thought she understood what had happened well enough. Caught unawares, the first strike to the back of her head, Lisbon had then been spun around, her attacker dealing two solid blows blacking one eye and splitting her lip, his whiskey-soaked breath hitting her with nearly as much force as the physical assault. Momentarily stunned, her psyche had reverted, just for an instant, to that helpless girl, victimized by her father and doing whatever it took and taking whatever was dished out in order to protect her younger brothers. That instant had passed, and Lisbon's experience and training and natural fire had come awake in time for her to defend herself from the worst of it. But size and surprise, fear and desperation had given her attacker the upper hand, and if Jane hadn't gotten to her when he did . . . Even now, in the safety of the office and the familiar comfort of the bullpen, Grace shuddered at how badly it could have turned out.
Once the boss's cuts and bruises had been tended to at the scene and they had made it back to the bureau, Lisbon had almost immediately stepped out, saying she needed some time. Grace knew it would be better for Boss to talk through what had happened than try to wade through the morass of self-reproof and shame that would surely only be fostered by silence and solitude, and she was sure Jane would have agreed and been the first one to step into the role of confidante. But some minutes after Lisbon's retreat, he had pronounced himself in need of something from the broader tea selection of the coffee shop around the corner and up the street. He had taken drink orders from the team, promised to pick up something for Lisbon as well, and headed out.
After a short while, Grace's impatience got the better of her. She knew where Lisbon had gone. At the back of the building, in the older construction, there was a ladies' room built on an outdated design of stalls separated by metal prefab walls and doors and exposed under-sink plumbing. Rarely used, it was inconvenient to most of the building and not nearly as nice as the newer facilities at the other end, and Lisbon sometimes went there for the quiet when she needed to think, to vent or even on one occasion, to wash a friend's blood out of her shirt. Grace excused herself from the bullpen to Rigsby's sympathetic-but-better-you-than-me face and Cho's guarded and uncharacteristically tense expression.
She walked back through the temporary records room, taking the rear service elevator down one level, past a couple of old interrogation rooms that were now used primarily for overflow furniture storage. As she neared the end of the hall, a soft murmur floated toward her from beyond the wide doorway. Come to comfort Lisbon, someone had beaten her to it. Stopping just inside the door frame, she leaned her head around the edge to see whom.
"Lisbon? Let me in."
Jane stood, head bent, his right hand braced against the door jamb, the palm of his left flat against the door as if he might sense her through it. He waited a few seconds then, hearing nothing, flexed his fingertips, rippling them back and forth across the wood surface. Grace wondered how many times he had wished he really could do magic. He leaned back into the door, ear close to hear movement or a voice on the other side.
"Lisbon. Teresa . . . Sweetheart, please. Open up."
A few more silent seconds, then he looked at the door, his whole body alert. The bolt was slowly drawn back, the door hesitantly opened, and Lisbon stepped into view, her body blocking the way, right hand holding onto the inside door handle and shoulder wedged against the door's edge. Though he had seen her just minutes before, the bruising around her eye and along her jaw already purpling, Jane's face crumpled in pain and something else that looked like regret. Lisbon's reluctance turned into defiance as she faced him, dismissing the perception of weakness her imperative.
"It's not as bad as—"
"I'm sorry," he said softly, raising his left hand to cup her unharmed cheek. The unexpectedness of his words immediately arrested her dismissal, and she frowned up at him.
"Jane, this wasn't your—"
"I knew when I said what I did, it would piss you off, and I said it anyway. Made you so angry you wanted to get away from me, away from everybody so you could cool off. If I hadn't—I'm sorry, Lisbon."
"Jane," she responded, her voice soft and sensible, "this wasn't your fault. We were going into a potentially dangerous situation, dangerous man, lots of places to hide." She hung her head in embarrassment. "I should've known better."
"Me too."
His fingertips stroked her jaw then along the side of her neck to tunnel into her hair. When he bent his head to lightly kiss the dimple at the corner of her mouth, Grace felt her own breath hitch.
"You followed me."
"Didn't want you to get away." One more feather kiss.
"Rescued me."
Kiss to the tip of her nose. "Told you I always would."
The door opened a little wider as she leaned to him. His right hand slid down the door jamb, curled over her shoulder and ran down her back, tucking her under his arm as he dipped his head to nuzzle her neck.
"Is this your way of making me feel better?" she asked, her voice at once sultry and teasing.
He straightened and looked down at her, a lazy grin rolling across his face. "As your rescuer, I had something more in the way of a reward in mind."
His left hand slid away from her neck and down her chest, and when it disappeared under the lapel of her jacket, Grace nearly choked on her gasp. But the unknowing objects of her observations were blessedly too caught up in one another to hear, and she watched, transfixed as Lisbon backed into the ladies' room drawing Jane after her. For a moment she wondered if she should stay and stand guard, but the sound of the deadbolt clicking into place told her she wasn't needed. Jane was taking things in hand and seeing to the details.
Her face flamed, and she spun on her heel and speed walked silently back up the dark hallway. The old elevator slowly ascended, and she winced at every creak, still fearful she might be somehow caught out in just knowing what was happening behind that locked door. A few deep breaths got her through the records room and back to the bullpen.
"Boss all right?" Rigsby asked.
"Yep. Fine."
She didn't look up, didn't dare look at Cho. If he saw her face he would know. He would give her that wooden-faced stare and see right into her head and know what she had heard and seen. She felt the telltale warming of her cheeks again and bent her head away from the others, pretending a search in her bottom desk drawer. When she straightened, she was certain she had regained her composure adequately to face the room. Rigsby shot her one more concerned look, and she was relieved beyond words that Cho's face and attention remained buried firmly in his book.
Forty minutes later, Jane returned from the coffee run.
"Black with an extra shot," he said as he placed a cup on Cho's desk.
"Tall, dark and extra cream for Rigsby."
Halfway to Van Pelt's desk, Rigsby's questioning arrested him. "What took you so long?"
Jane's head swiveled around. "Uh. There was more to it than I expected."
Unwittingly, Grace lifted her eyes to the back of Jane's head as Rigsby continued questioning.
"Afternoon rush, huh?"
"Something like that, yes."
Jane suddenly turned back to face Van Pelt and flashed a huge, knowing grin as he advanced on her. "And a light and sweet for our lovely resident red-head."
He set the cup down on her desk and circled smoothly behind her, bending to whisper in her ear under the pretext of cramming the cardboard carrier in her wastebasket.
"Kids walk in on mom and dad all of the time, Grace. It was an honest moment. Get over it."
She gagged out a tight cough and wanted to kick herself for her inability to control the infernal blushing. Jane nestled into his couch, attention focused on the exotic tea he had procured at the coffee shop, his baiting her seemingly over. With any luck, she would get through what little was left of the day without further incident.
"Lisbon get hers?" Rigsby asked innocently, and she wondered why he couldn't just leave it alone.
"Mm-hm," was Jane's distracted response. More pointedly he added, "I saw to that first thing."
"Well. Hope you weren't too put out."
Jane looked up and assured him with all sincerity, "It was my pleasure."
An hour later, Lisbon leaned into the bullpen to congratulate them on a good day's work and told them to head for home. Jane laid aside the volume he'd been reading and walked to the break room to dispose of his cup and, Grace suspected, to make himself a fresh pot of the more familiar brew while he waited for Lisbon to finish up for the evening. Having had some time to quietly reflect on the situation, Van Pelt followed hard on his heels, her own empty cup in hand.
She could tell by the set of his shoulders that he knew she was behind him and that she meant to talk. He lobbed his cup into the trash, filled the kettle and set it on the heating burner before turning to her.
"Yes, Grace?"
He was so smug, so in control. She quelled the urge to slap him, instead smiling lightly, her eyes sparkling into his.
"So. You know. I was in the hallway. Outside the ladies' room."
He lazed back against the counter. "Yes."
"Does Lisbon know?" Her smile widened with satisfaction when he shifted his weight, his expression losing some of its brightness.
"No. And that's probably best."
"I don't suppose she's too eager for people to find out." At his slightly affronted look, she hurried to expound. "Not liking to mix personal with the job."
"We've decided to keep it between ourselves for the time being." His smile faded a bit more, and she felt a sudden surge of sympathy for him but not enough to get off track.
"The job's important to her."
"I'm aware."
"Are you?" Grace returned sharply.
Jane looked at her, his gaze keen and direct. "More than even you could imagine."
"Have you considered this—what you're doing—Jane? Thought it through?" She had given up the pretense of stealth and now she was glaring at him, her straightforwardness matching his.
"I have."
"And?"
"Are you asking my intentions, Grace?"
She ignored his mocking tone and stepped into him threateningly. "Exactly what do you intend, Jane?"
"To make it impossible for her to live without me. To do for her. Keep her safe. Never let her go and never make her sorry for sticking with me."
"She know that?"
He hesitated, and she saw uncertainty flicker through his eyes. She relaxed her stance and let him turn away to finish his preparations. Knowing this would be his opportunity to break the thread of their conversation, she was surprised when—pouring the milk into his cup—he answered.
"She's having difficulty grasping the concept. Hard to convince, you know."
"Have you told her?"
"'Action is eloquence,'" he replied, tilting the kettle over the turquoise ceramic.
"Will that be enough?"
She watched him from behind, his elbow moving with the rhythmic dousing of the teabag. He finally laid it to the side on a napkin, crumpled both tightly in one hand and tossed it in the trash, pausing before picking up his spoon to stir.
"I'm doing everything I can." He turned back toward her and took a sip.
"Will that be enough?" she repeated urgently.
He raised his eyes to look at her over the cup and responded irritably, "What do you want me to do, Grace? Hit her over the head and drag her back to my cave?"
She suddenly smirked. "If you think that would help."
He cradled the cup and saucer in both hands, looking down into the amber contents, posture easing with the shift to complicity between them.
"I want something a little more mutual than that."
Her look and voice softened. "Do you love her?"
"You of all people should know how far that is from being your business, Grace."
She allowed him that. "Are you happy?"
His shoulders relaxed. "Very."
"Is she?"
"She seems so."
Grace nodded in acceptance of his answer. She stepped up to the sink, standing next to him, aware of his gaze on her profile, and the atmosphere immediately shifted once more.
"It would be good if she stayed that way."
"Is that a threat, Agent Van Pelt?"
"No," her tone lightened. "Just my two cents."
She looked directly at him and grinned, rolled her head as she turned and headed for the door. He had just relaxed again when she pivoted back around.
"But understand me, Jane." Her voice was still light, almost flirtatious. It was the glint in her eyes that caught and held his attention. "I haven't been sitting at my computer all this time just googling directions and looking into financials. I've learned a thing or two—some from Lisbon, some from you and the others, some just from life. Lisbon's important to me. I've killed to save her, more than once. You hurt her and—"
"You'll shoot me?"
Grace tilted her head and looked at him, considering for a moment. "Maybe. It depends. But I want you to understand and believe me when I tell you—I know where and how to hide a body so that not even you could find it." She paused a moment to let it sink in, both her words and her willingness to stand behind them.
He nodded solemnly. "I understand, Grace. And I believe."
Then he stood a little taller, his voice as firm as hers had seemed playful. "But understand me. I would never, will never intentionally do anything that I think would actually hurt Lisbon. And I'll have my own way of dealing with anyone who does."
She looked at him a long time, assessing, searching, much like the way Lisbon had of doing. At last, satisfied, she replied, "I'll leave you to it then. Good night, Jane."
She left the room, his gaze trailing after her. When she disappeared beyond the edge of glass, he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply then exhaled slowly, letting the tension release on a thin stream of breath out his lips. He barely had time to fully recover before Cho entered and stepped to his side to empty his coffee dregs in the sink. He tossed the paper cup and rinsed his hands.
"Did Van Pelt have a word?"
The raised teacup hovered at Jane's lips. "Yeah," he answered delicately. "And then some."
He took a drink and replaced the cup in the saucer, considering how they fit together. "How did you know?"
"About what?" Cho asked, busying himself with tearing off a paper towel and drying his hands. He disposed of the wipe and turned to face the consultant. "You and Lisbon in the old ladies' washroom or Van Pelt figuring it out?"
"Both. Either."
Cho only looked at him, stoic and unanswering, eluded the question and made his own point. "She threaten you?"
"Sure did," Jane assured him good-naturedly. "You have anything to add?"
"I'm sure Van Pelt covered it. Whatever she said, she'll have a partner."
Jane suddenly felt uncomfortably pinned by Cho's lancing gaze. For the second time in less than five minutes, he affirmed that he heard and understood that someone—a friend—was, for all intents and purposes, threatening his life. Like Grace had done, Cho studied him for a moment then left without a good-bye.
Jane, of course, could understand their concerns as well as their intentions. But hurting Lisbon was the very last thing he wanted to do, and he would go through a lot rather than let that happen, let alone be the cause of it. He could tell them what it had been like, the realization of his feelings for her (or rather, the end of denying them) before Red John's death, the knowledge that he could never act on those feelings so long as the murderer lived, and that awful, hard and lonely week after he had run away in the wake of the irretrievable and final frustrating of his years-long consuming ambition.
He had left that day, fled in the face of the double blows of Lisbon making the arrest and some other father, life left in charred ruins by the death of his only daughter, making the kill. Without thought, he had found himself on the I-5 headed for Malibu. Like a hundred times before, he had pulled into the drive, ignored the comforting pounding of the waves against the beach and walked into the empty house.
Only this time it really had been empty. Jane didn't believe in such things, of course, but in times past there had been something of a ghostly companionship in that house. Something of Angela and Charlotte lingered behind, what he remembered of their energy and liveliness shrouded in grief and the vestiges of violent death. But that night, there was nothing. Red John was dead, and it was as if, satisfied, those waiting specters had finally left him behind, no longer having reason to commune. Worn and battered, he had laid down on the threadbare mattress in the room he once shared with his wife below the gruesome reminder painted in their mixed blood, and for the first time he had sought rest there.
But rest and comfort had never been the reason for his visits. He had sat in that house, had lay on that pallet contemplating his bloody, brutal revenge. That bed, that room, that house had been fuel for when his resolve weakened, his mind tired, his leads ran out. Now, it was obsolete. He had tossed and turned for a few hours, the awareness of the discomfort and resulting aches and stiffness another first, then finally realized the futility of remaining. Taking himself to a good hotel nearby, he had soaked in the heat of a deep tub and enjoyed a strong cup of plain tea. His pajamas had chafed at his skin, so he had laid them aside and slid naked between the sheets, irritated when the luxuriant softness still prickled against him.
For five days, he ate when he was hungry, walked on the beach when he took a notion and studiously avoided his house in the same way he ignored Lisbon's attempts at communication, his anger growing steadily because the food had no taste, activity left him listless and he found no rest in the comfortable, unhaunted bed. It occurred to him that he was now living a life in which he had never been meant to exist. He had always thought that if Red John were dead he would be too, that the two of them would have done away with one another in one great and final struggle. At the very least, he would be in jail, not expecting comfort from the hard cot or enjoyment in the bland fare. Was he living out of time? And how would he come about, find his place again? The questions plagued and unsettled him even as he resolutely denied the obvious and practical place to look for the answers.
And then on the sixth day, everything changed. His phone stopped ringing. No texts, no voice mails, no Lisbon. He passed through his day, not caring that his eggs were runny, his tea persistently in a state of cooling, the beach uninteresting, its sky flat and gray and spiritless as his own existence. Again, day passed into night, and he crawled into the big, decadent bed and wallowed restlessly. Finally, he lay and looked up at where moonlight reflecting off the evening-gentled waves danced on the ceiling and suddenly wondered just what the hell he was punishing himself for now.
He rolled toward the nightstand and fumbled for his phone, folded his pillow propping his head on the double thickness of down, and opened his texts. Reading them one-by-one, he committed each to memory then closed his eyes and imagined with his mind's ear Lisbon speaking the words she had typed; the subtle nuances, the lilting inflections, the flat demands, the angry questions, the soft admissions, the husky timbre.
Her last text became a loop, sounding in his head on repeat.
Please call me. Or just text. Let me know you're all right and alive. Miss you.
The last two words he imagined in that throaty whisper of hers. His body warmed, and he smoothed and plumped the pillow, turning to lie on his back once more. Longing to hear the real thing, he accessed his voice mail, hit speaker and held the phone lightly on his chest.
The shooter's booked. Full confession, didn't even ask for a lawyer. I looked for you . . . Look, I know you're going to need time, but please, Jane. Call me? Whenever you can . . . Please.
Jane, I . . . I'm sorry things didn't go . . . scratch that. I hope . . . Just call me. When you can.
I need you to call. Bertram's asking about you. What do I tell him? Please, Jane. Please call me.
I don't have much time. We're working with the locals in Monterey, waiting for the go on a raid. How are—(gunshots fired in the background)—Holy crap! Hold your fire! Hold your—
He paused the messages, willing his breathing to return to normal, waited a moment then let her voice wash over him again.
Sorry about that. The mark (He smiled at her use of the word.) caught onto us and opened fire, and some rookie down the line decided to make a reputation for himself. Nobody hurt, thank goodness. Call me, okay? . . . Just . . . call.
Jane, where the hell are you? I've got three hot cases on my desk, and I could really use . . . You know what? Never mind.
There was one more angry message, two more newsy ones about things going on at the office and suddenly they turned quiet and thoughtful, resigned and sorrowful. Her last—
I guess this must be it then. I thought so much about what you planned . . . how you had hoped things would go. I never thought about what it would be like when you left. You could've said good-bye. Guess that would have been too normal. Maybe a blinding flash and a puff of smoke? . . . . . . I won't forget you. Couldn't if I tried. You remember us too? Call or stop by sometime? We'll always be glad to see you. Try to stay out of trouble and . . . be happy, Jane. If I've done anything for you, if I gave you anything, if I have any right to ask anything, it's that. Please. Be happy.
He played it twice more, then the one line, I won't forget you. People said things like that, but it frequently proved the opposite. Oh, she would remember clearly for a while, but in time her memory of him would fade, dulled down from the reality. She would eventually have trouble recalling his features with clarity, remembering the exact sound of his voice. There would come a day when she didn't think of him at all except when reminded by a certain sound or phrase someone used in speech, a time when she would be too busy to stop at a farm stand or too tired to brew herself some late evening tea.
Even as he thought it, he knew for certain sure it wasn't so. Lisbon wasn't like other people. She had said she would remember, and she would. She would always recall his face, his eyes, the chronic wrinkle of his suits. And every time she bit into a perfectly ripe, sweet strawberry, she would think of him. But who would make sure she stopped at the roadsides to buy them when they were at their peak? Who would bring her coffees and red delicious apples? Who would surprise her and irritate her, and who would keep her company at night when the others had left for home?
His leaving was hurting her. He could hear it in her voice. She missed him and wanted him back, but she would never come after him even though she had the resources. For all her gruff manner, there was a softness to her, a lady-like quality that wouldn't allow her to force her wishes or desires on anyone else. And because of that, he decided, she deserved to have her wish. He had left her once before for the purgatory of Vegas, and she had taken him back, extending him a grace in the face of the greatest breaches he had ever committed in their relationship that even now left him in a state of wonder. He had hurt her then, and he was causing her pain again. He would go back. In the morning. If only to offer thanks and give her that flash and puff of smoke.
And with that thought, he had curled into the cocooning bed and sunk into the deepest sleep he had enjoyed in years.
He had to laugh when he thought about it now. He had slept late, the bed's comfort no longer eluding him, and upon waking had set about a series of small errands. He had spent the remainder of the morning scouting out a good breakfast place then driving around the area to see what realtor had the most signs out. A late and satisfying breakfast eaten, he had caught sight of himself in a shop window and had decided to buy new shoes and suit, paying extra to hurry the slight alterations, splurging on a haircut and professional shave during the wait. It was early evening before he set out for Sacramento, thinking he might catch some fresh strawberries along the way, a tried and true peace offering.
But once on the road, it was as if an unknown imperative had been triggered. He listened to her voice mails again, replaying some of them repeatedly. He ignored the empty protestations of his stomach, hunger subsumed by a need to see her. As the scenery around him began to change, need became want, and by the time he launched himself out of his car and along the walk to the door, he was so desperate for her he was fighting for breath. And then suddenly she was standing there, sleepy and irritated with him, and he had reached for her as though he had been years in doing so—
"Where's my tea?"
He lifted the kettle and smiled down into her mug as he filled it with hot water.
"It's coming, woman."
"Not fast enough."
"You're spoiled, you know that?"
By now, she was standing at his shoulder. "Whose fault is that?"
"'Fault', Lisbon?"
"How silly of me. I suppose you should be getting the credit."
"Only if you think being spoiled is a good thing."
She tilted her head, and he dipped his to nip at her neck. She swatted at him, eyes sparkling, and he went back to making her tea.
"What, Agent Lisbon? No threats about PDA? You're slipping, dear."
"Everybody's gone for the evening." She dug her fingers into her front pockets and rocked forward once on her toes.
"Ah. A loophole." He turned to face her, leaning back against the counter.
"No," she answered quickly as if to head off the notion, scowling at him through her eyebrows. Then she relaxed and tilted her head back, one side of her mouth quirking upward lazily. "An excusable lapse."
He chuckled at her incredulously. "Lisbon. Love. You do realize how prone to lapses I am? If you make allowance for such things, I'll never leave you alone."
Her eyes went hazy, and he took advantage of the moment of weakness, hoping to make it last longer. One finger lifted to hook her hair behind her ear then traced down along her jaw, thumb curving up to stroke back across her bottom lip, fingers unfurling to cup her face then possess her neck. When she closed her eyes and leaned into his touch, his hand pushed back and up, palming the back of her head and drawing her to him. His kiss was light, tempting, fetching her to him, and she groaned in submission and stepped forward, pressing her body against the length of his.
The kiss was long and languid, Jane controlling the angle, depth and heat, finally breaking it only to let his lips trail along her skin to her cheekbone, pausing there for a kiss then up to temple, brow, and on around to end the circuit at the opposite corner of her lips.
"It seems," she said drily, "I'm prone as well."
"Vive les lapses," he murmured against her throat before bringing his lips to her ear. "Drink your tea while I gather your things and close up shop."
"Jane," she drew back and said matter-of-factly. "I've got work to do."
He frowned down at her petulantly, fingers massaging just behind her ear. "For how long?"
She laughed up at him. "About thirty minutes." She reached around him for the mug, but when his hands dropped to grasp her hips, her hand hovered an inch from the handle. Her eyes slid sideways and up to meet his. "One more lapse first?"
He smiled down at her, a mix of triumph and indulgence. "As you wish," he whispered, arms encircling her proprietarily, head bending once more to hers, losing himself in the breach. Lisbon mentally recalculated her work estimate before toppling after him.