11. STRIKE THE HARP AND JOIN THE CHORUS
- Deck the Halls

Lisbon had nearly slept the clock around. Then, as was his luck where she was concerned, she had awakened when a nurse was in the room. The battleax had summoned the doctor and ordered Jane out to the hall. There had been a flurry of tests and examinations, and Jane had managed to catch the doctor's attention long enough to convince him his patient would rest better closer to home. An ambulance was arranged to drive her up, and at the doctor's flat refusal to allow him to ride with her, Jane had left to acquire a rental car for himself. Again, as was his luck, she was gone by the time he got back to the hospital, the doctor laughingly telling him she had demanded the siren be used the whole way.

He had followed behind, driving as fast as he dared, not wanting to be slowed even further by a traffic stop, arriving at Sacramento General a little over an hour after her only to find that she had checked herself out against doctor's orders. He knew Grace had carried her retrieved cell phone to Malibu and had left it at her bedside at Good Samaritan. When his third call went directly to voice mail, he had to consider that if he were unduly paranoid, he would think Lisbon was avoiding him. Not wanting to push her, he went to the CBI. And not wanting to face anyone or do any work without her there, he went directly to her office.

He sat and read at her desk, stopping occasionally to go through her things, one drawer or shelf at a time, then made himself tea and returned to sit and read on his end of her couch. By mid-afternoon he felt his concentration slipping and found it difficult to keep his eyes open. The team was in the bullpen and Wainwright was back at work, and he knew if anyone really needed him they would know where to find him. So, he rested his book on her file cabinet, stretched out, covered himself with the blanket, sniffed deeply at the pillow and fell asleep.

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He had become expert at gauging the length of his naps based on the dryness of his mouth and how settled he felt on whatever surface he slept. It had been about two hours by his reckoning. He rubbed his eyes then opened them in an exaggerated stretch, only to find Grace facing him head on, sitting in a chair she had pulled up next to the couch. She was well settled, legs crossed comfortably, elbows resting on the chair's arms, hands lightly clasped in front of her.

"So?" she asked him expectantly.

"So . . . what?" he countered in confusion.

"So how did it go?"

"How did what go?"

"Your talk. With Lisbon."

"She was asleep, Grace. It's not like—"

"After, you idiot."

"After what?"

"Look," she said, leaning toward him almost menacingly, "We can do this the hard way or the easy way."

"Okay, okay! Sheesh, there's no need for threats."

"Neither you nor I am leaving this room until you spill."

"There's nothing to spill." He explained at her dubious look. "She woke up, I got kicked out of the room, I got her a ride back to Sacramento and she was gone by the time I got back from arranging my own ride. By the time I made it to Sacramento General she'd flown the coop, and the lady is currently not answering my calls," he finished airily, certain his explanation would satisfy her and garner sympathy as well.

"She's home."

He arched an eyebrow at her, and she rolled her eyes back at him. "She'd been in that basement for more than two days with no shower privileges after the few nights she'd already spent here."

"There are showers here." He wished instantly he could take back the petulant outburst.

"Not her shower. She wanted to go home. And do something about her hair."

"What was wrong with her hair?"

"Did you see it?"

"Of course, I saw it." And he had thought she looked fine. Beautiful even, as ever.

A small knowing smile lit her face then expanded into a full grin. "It just needed to be . . . cleaned up a little."

Just then, Cho and Rigsby pulled the door open and leaned in. "Well?" Cho asked.

"Says he didn't get a chance," Van Pelt answered, her eyes never leaving Jane. Both men walked in the rest of the way, Cho stepping up just behind and to the right of Grace and folding his arms across his chest, Rigsby sauntering over to lean against the file cabinet to look down at Jane where he still lay on the couch.

"Whatsa matter, man? Lose your nerve?"

"No," Jane replied, mildly offended. "It's like I said, there wasn't time."

"You were there all night," Cho stated flatly.

"She didn't wake up until this morning."

"And then?" Rigsby asked.

"And then," he said, sitting up. "I was hustled out of her room by some biddy that takes herself too seriously. I got the doctor to send Lisbon home by ambulance, and I couldn't ride back with her. So, I had to go rent a car. By the time I got back to the hospital she was gone, and—"

"And she's been running ever since," Grace answered teasingly.

"Huh," was Cho's only response. Rigsby lowered his head and snickered.

"'Huh' what?" Jane asked, starting to get irritated at having to explain himself and that he was sounding a little pathetic doing it.

"I've seen you cheat your way to a quarter mil in a high-security casino, set up an ex-Mafia boss, dress up a dead body to get a confession, make yourself tea in the kitchens of multiple killers and victims, drive blind-folded . . . and you couldn't find five minutes to tell Lisbon you've got the hots for her."

"I've got the hots—First of all, I would never say that . . . Probably. And five minutes? You don't think I'd want to take a little more time than that?"

"What's to say? You want her, she wants you. As long as you're not trying to do a magic trick or boring her to death with significa, you should be able to get that in at just under three, three-and-a-half tops."

Rigsby could barely control his laughter by that point. Just then, much to Jane's relief Luther Wainwright stuck his head in and looked at them all quizzically.

"Well?" he asked.

"Couldn't do it," Grace informed him.

"Don't think he has the balls for it," Cho chimed in.

"Totally ball-less," Rigsby snorted.

"Really?" Luther looked at Jane in disappointment. "I guess it's just as well we didn't do the pool then."

"Can't bet when there's nothing happening."

"We could bet on how long it'll take Jane to grow a pair."

"Grow a pair? Does that mean he didn't do it?" Lydia Stanton slid through the open doorway behind Wainwright just as her phone rang. She stepped to Lisbon's desk to answer discreetly, her voice quickly rising to conversation level. "It was a no-go. Apparently Jane's ball-less . . . What? They're all saying it! . . . Yeah, I'll call you if anything happens." She snapped her phone shut. "Wyatt says you should grow a pair, too."

"I think that's fairly unanimous," Luther responded, stepping fully into the room and tucking his hands into his trouser pockets.

"Is that it? Are you all done?" Jane asked, smiling a little too broadly at their teasing.

"I'm not done," Cho answered flatly and looked down at Van Pelt. "Are you done?"

She looked up over her shoulder at him. "I'm nowhere near done."

"Done what?" Howard Tell asked stepping into the room to join them.

"Trying to find out why Jane hasn't got the balls to tell Lisbon he's got the hots for her."

"Oh, that's an easy one."

"Do tell," fished Lydia.

"He's scared of 'er."

"Scared of her," Rigsby said in disbelief as he turned to Jane. "She can't be as scary as Sonny Batalia."

"Oo, you know Sonny Batalia?" Lydia asked, her curiosity piqued.

Jane held up his hands in surrender and looked at Lydia. "Yes, I know Sonny Batalia, and it's really not that interesting a story."

"He broke into his golf game and then prank called him," Rigsby related.

"Maybe he should prank call Lisbon," Cho rejoined.

Ignoring them both, Jane continued. "And I am not going to tell Lisbon I've got 'the hots' for her . . . probably. And I'm going to want more than five minutes, no matter what I say to her, and I don't need to grow a pair, thank you."

He finally looked at Howard Tell, round-eyed with sincerity. "However, I am willing to admit, quite frankly, that I am a little scared of her."

Amidst their laughter, the older agent tried to offer him some advice. "I say you just take the bull by the horns—"

"Which will require balls," Rigsby insisted.

"—bite the bullet—"

"Or be ready to duck one," Grace counseled.

"—use as few words as possible—"

"Let's stick with something easy for him," Wainwright interjected.

"—grab a hold of 'er—"

"Please don't say cleanse her musculature," Lydia pleaded.

"—and just haul off and kiss 'er."

"And wear a cup," Cho deadpanned. "For your newly grown balls."

"You know, innocent fun aside, I really wish you'd stop saying that. It's putting me off the whole thing."

Grace decided to take pity on him, and the others followed her lead. As they headed out of the office, the discussion continued amongst them about what they saw as Jane's abject failure in what, they believed, should've been a fairly easy mission. At Wainwright's "Does this mean we're not doing a pool?" wafting back just before the door glided closed, Jane stood to pace and consider, first closing the blinds to make sure he had privacy as he did so.

In spite of their teasing, he knew they were right. He did need to talk to Lisbon. But he was right too. He would want more than five minutes. He was sure easing her into the idea of even hearing him out would take that long. (The rogue thought that a magic trick wasn't a bad idea popped into his head, but he dismissed it nearly at once.) Then there would be a long discussion on whether they were right for one another (and whether they could survive one another) followed by the obligatory droning about rules, regulations and protocols.

All in all, his first conversation with Lisbon on the topic of romance was shaping up to be pretty boring.

But then, even their most mundane moments sparked with humor and wit, sometimes anger and threats but always passion and pleasure. And that thought suddenly had him breathing deeply and looking forward to that talk. He would give her another full day, which—today being the 22nd—would put their talk on Christmas Eve, which—it occurred to him—would be rather like a one-year anniversary for them—one year since the first time that began their "next times". Which would work well because he knew exactly where she would be and what she would be doing, both that day and the next (condo and ice cream). He smiled to himself wondering if she'd like to take in a movie on Christmas Day. It had been a long time since he'd been, let alone taken a date . . .

That was weird. He didn't remember going on dates, not a full-fledged one. There had been plenty of women when he was still working for his father, but he wouldn't classify his interactions (for lack of a better word) with them as "dates". Angela hadn't been allowed to go out, his own dad didn't want him forming soft attachments and Jane hadn't wanted to pit himself against both fathers. He and Angela had left the carnival by way of elopement, so his only real "dates" had been with her after they were married.

He looked down at his moving hands and realized he was reorganizing Lisbon's desktop, beanbag in hand. He was thinking too much. Everything in their relationship over the years had happened and developed naturally over time, and this would come naturally as well. This would be fine. He would be fine. They would be fine.

He dropped the beanbag onto the desk then repositioned it and walked to the door rubbing his palms slowly down each side of his vest as he went. After leaning out to see if the coast was clear, he slipped through the door and strode to the break room. Tea was just the thing.