A/N: I'm not sure if this chapter is in character, but in my defense I've had a crappy day and that zapped a lot of my inspiration. There are some definite moments of Jane flirting with Lisbon in here, which I wasn't sure I wanted to put in, but I figured he had to start flirting with her sometime, because he was definitely already doing it by the pilot. R&R.

***

Late February, 2008

Lisbon never went out.

She wasn't a partier, never had been. Not even when she was supposed to be—he college days were spent jetting home on weekends to make sure her father was okay—to provide guidance to her teenage brothers. She was an adult already by the time she actually became one, and she had never had time for it.

It was the same now, even though her brothers were all adults living out of state, and she rarely saw her father. She worked fourteen hour days with the CBI, and had neither the time or the inclination to go out after those hours were over.

It was surprising, then, that she was sitting in a bar on a Friday night, nursing a Margherita, with the rest of her unit. It was more than surprising—it was downright bizarre. The boys were playing pool together—that was what she called them now, the boys. The addition of Rigsby had, in some imperceptible way, turned the three of them into a unit.

Lisbon was perched on a bar stool, pondering her new position. She was still the boss, sure: Cho was still terrified to make her angry, Rigsby was new, and in shy awe of her, and Jane was still Jane. But somehow, she had turned into "the girl"—the only woman, outnumbered three to one. It meant different things. For one, she had yet to buy a single margherita so far—Rigsby had discretely covered all of them. Jane pulled out her chair whenever they went to lunch, held the door open for her when they were out on cases. Cho brought her a cranberry muffin every morning from the coffee shop up the street where he bought his breakfast. They all tried, in small ways, to take care of her. She, in turn, pretended she didn't notice, because she hated the thought of being taken care of almost as much as she liked Margheritas ,having her chair pulled out for her, and cranberry muffins.

There was a young female bartender waiting on them—she was probably no older than twenty-five, she wore a short black skirt, and as far as Lisbon could tell, she was all business. Rigby eyed her appreciatively. She brought over three drinks—Cho's beer wasn't the Miller Lite he had asked for, and Jane's rum and coke was weaker than he had told her he wanted. Rigsby's extra dirty martini, a drink that they had all teased him for getting, was made perfectly.

"We need bait," she heard Rigsby say, after the woman left. "If other women look interested, she'll follow."

Jane laughed. "An interesting idea. It suggests that women fundamentally aren't interested in men for being men, but instead, to triumph over other women."

Rigsby rolled his eyes, Lisbon thought he had taken a remarkably short time to tune out Jane's long speeches. "Spare me the psycho-babble. You got a better idea?"

Jane put up his hands in mock surrender. Lisbon doubted he didn't have a better plan, but was silent. "What's your bait?" he asked.

Three pairs of eyes met Lisbon on the stool.

"Absolutely not," she said. "That is quite possibly the dumbest thing I've ever heard you say, and Rigsby, that's saying something."

Rigsby looked injured, and Jane clasped him on the shoulder. Cho stood, sipped his beer. "Are you going to play the next round with us, boss?"

Lisbon shook her head. "I told you, Cho, I'm horrible at pool."

The three were standing in a semi-circle in front of her now. Jane was tapping his pool cue against her knee, making a puppy face. Rigsby and Cho were slightly more distant, having already adopted similar attitudes toward her.

"So we'll teach you."

"Rigsby will," Jane said, suddenly mischevious.

"Why me?"

Lisbon raised her eyebrows. "Why is that such a punishment?"

"It's not, boss."

Lisbon drained the last of her Margherita, was quiet. She was never one to over play her hand, never one to give up what she was thinking too quickly. She had cultivated that habit even more since she met Jane, the constant game of not giving away too much. Jane signaled the bartender to bring her another drink, pointing to himself, indicating he was paying.

"Okay," she said.

She stood, took a pool cue from the wall. It was a short one, suited for her small height, she thought. "I don't know how to hold this thing," she said, drawing laughter from the others.

"Like this," Rigsby said, indicating with his own hands. His fingers were curled around the front of it, the tip of the stick between his fingers. She did it herself, leaned over the table.

"You're not leaning right," Rigsby said. He moved next to her. "Hips up a little." He did it himself rather than touch her. She moved her hips. "Back more... stretched." She stretched. "Not like that. Try to put a curve in it." She tried.

Rigsby chuckled. "Okay. No." Then uncertainly, "I'm going to put my hand on your back now. Just my hand, to get you in the right position. Okay?"

She heard gales of laughter from behind her, and saw Rigsby turn to give Cho a dirty look. She could almost hear Jane's smile, that cat that got the canary grin. He would have known the discomfort Rigsby would have with her, and that's why he would have set it up this way. Why? Because he was a bastard.

He pushed on her spine with the very tips of his fingers. "Rigsby, if you jab me like that again, so help me god, it'll be the last thing you ever do."

He snickered uncomfortably. "Shoulders down some," he mumbled. She obviously didn't do it right, because she felt the tips of his fingers on her shoulders next. "Good," he said. She was sure his face was red. It was funny and infuriating all at the same time. "I think you're good."

She shot. She actually hit the little white ball. Even more shockingly, a little red ball went into a hole.

"Look at that!" Rigsby yelled. "Guess I'm a good teacher," he said.

"A teacher who is mortally terrified of his student," Cho laughed.

"Like you'd be much better," Rigsby shot back, and it was true. She had been in the same unit with Cho for over a year and a half now, and hell if he still didn't stutter in terror around her.

Jane sidled up next to Rigsby. "And look who's watching you," Jane said, nodding to the right. The pretty bartender was eyeing Rigsby, eyeing Lisbon. Lisbon rolled her eyes at the woman, a reflex she couldn't help.

"So I guess I was right, huh?" Rigsby said, in triumph.

"Yes and no," Jane responded. "She liked you the whole time."

"How'd you see that?"

"You're the only one whose drink she remembered."

"So?"

"So she remembered the drink, she remembered you. Just a guess."

Rigsby signaled for the bartender to come over, wearing a plodding, insecure smile.

***

An hour later, they were playing Dean Martin.

Cho and Rigsby were significantly drunk by then, she and Jane were not.

Lisbon had always been more partial to Martin over Sinatra, though she kept this fact to herself. People tended to view it as a mortal song was Sway, and a few couples had made their way onto the very small hardwood bar dance floor. She took in the subtle guitar, the airy beat, rolling her head around, in a reverie. Jane looked over to her, smiled.

"Are you going to ask me to dance, Lisbon?" He was a little tipsy, his speech was slurred somewhat. His voice was more husky than usual, a little lower in his throat.

"Why would I do that?" She laughed at him.

"Fair point. Can I ask you?"

She considered for a moment. "Sure you can. Ask."

"Lisbon, do you want to dance with me?"

"Of course not," she deadpanned. At his injured look she replied, "I never said I'd say yes."

He reached over, put an arm around her shoulders. He had taken to touching bits of her lately, nothing major, a graze on the elbow here, a tapping at her forearm there. He leaned into her little. "Why not?" he asked, in that same voice. She braved a look into his mischevious blue eyes, and moved his arm. The idea of dancing with Jane was too intimate, too—indescribably impossible. She couldn't even imagine it. It was a mental block she could never get past, even when she was out on a Friday night, even with a few drinks in her.

"I don't dance."

"Not true. If I weren't me, if you didn't know me, you could." He looked part cheeky, part naughty little boy. She didn't lie.

"But you are you, I do know you, and I can't."

He nodded. The song played on. Cho and Rigsby stood on the other side of the bar, wandering, laughing about something she didn't know. "How long has it been since you've gone out, Lisbon?"Jane suddenly asked, surprising her. Even halfway drunk he could pry, could observe, could reach into her life.

"I go out."

He looked at her.

"Sometimes," she said.

He looked at her again.

"Rarely," she conceeded.

He waited.

"It's just not me," she said.

"You're having fun now." It wasn't a question. "You played a perfectly respectable game of pool, you watched Rigsby strike out with the bartender, and now they're playing your favorite song. And you're thinking, 'I should do this more often.' But knowing you won't. Why is that?"

She turned to face him full on. "Do you ever turn that off?" she asked. "Do you ever not do that?"

"Does it bother you?"

She turned back. "You know it does."

"Not as much as it used to. Like it or not, Lisbon, you're getting used to me. I'm even growing on you."

She crossed her legs, the song was ending now.

When you dance you have a way with me, stay with me, sway with me.

He leaned in close, not touching her, breath warm. "And that's the real reason you won't dance with me."

She had learned that in these situations it was best not to say anything. Jane could get something out of anything, and she had learned that the best course of action in diffusing the Jane observation machine was not to engage.

"I think I'll go home now," she said. "It's late."

It was. It was after two in the morning, and instead of being curled up in her own bed watching law shows, making fun of how unrealistic they were, she was here. It was weird.

"You have a cab outside," he said nonchalantly.

She looked puzzled. "I didn't call a cab yet."

He nodded. "I know. I called it about twenty minutes ago. Figured you'd be leaving soon."

He got up to walk her to the door. It was a chilly night, and he guided her, briefly with one hand on the small of her back. It was warm, it was secure. It was a sharp contrast to Rigsby's icy, terrified fingers on her spine. It was another touch, and she moved away from it, but much more slowly, much more reluctant to leave the warmth behind, to go into the brisk night air.

***

Next Chapter: "Jane still wore his wedding ring."