-Men and their cars have a weird, symbiotic relationship, in my experience. But then I'm married to a petrol-head ex-rally driver. Hence the car bore detail quoted...(yes, he's driven a DS)-
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Drive Me to Distraction
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"Sam, this case isn't Serial – some low-life bookie got on the wrong side of someone. If he hadn't been left on the court steps, we wouldn't be involved. Hell, if it goes to anyone else, it will be the Gangshow upstairs."
Bosco's own frown deepens at the mention of the OC Unit. She isn't sure how they've upset him, but they upset everyone, so she doesn't pursue it.
"I have no intention of butting in..."
But, she thinks...
"...but I still think I should come along and experience the work of the Unit in the field..."
She frowns at him. Bosco sighs. He's trying to be reasonable, has acceded to her request to utilize that...man, doesn't see why there is a problem.
Lisbon, who hears the unspoken term 'supervision' behind his words, and has had two years of picking up on Jane's techniques of observation, now, can see a big problem. Two of them, in fact. She doesn't like the way they act around each other – they bring out the worst in each other, and whilst she is reasonably sure that Bosco does not know the true extent of her...involvement with Jane, they both have a possessive manner about them which puts her teeth on edge. It makes her feel ridiculous, to be squabbled over by two grown men as if she were some kind of prize. It's undignified and insulting.
Odd that it should be this man, so practical and professional, who is still living in the past. To him, she is still his rookie agent, still his...ex-mistress. (Flinches internally, every time.) She had thought their affair (be honest with yourself, woman) long over, long resolved (because sometimes you do need to move on, try to forget) but it seems that he clings to something, wants something from her that she is no longer prepared to give him.
She is with another man, now. One who is making a painful effort to move forward, to try to live again. The professional lines are still a little blurred, but there is no deep shame in her when she is with him.
"I can't see how it will be useful to you." Unless you are looking for ammunition. "If you want to be an observer on the case, then that's your call."
My team, my rules. Very clear. She's not sure he's completely absorbed that, particularly not when he says,
"You can brief me on the way. I'm parked at the end of the lot."
Something snaps, as he starts to walk, expecting her to follow.
"I've already designated transport." Crisp and angry. "And I have my team briefed."
Turns on her heel, and strides down the hall, brisk enough that he's left gaping, and by the time he makes it out of the door, she's already getting into what has to be the most unofficial looking vehicle he has ever seen. The sleek elegant lines, the silver-blue shimmer, make it stand out from the dark, blocky, practical SUV's.
He might have known who would drive something like that, shutting the door behind her.
"She's a goddess."
"What?" Bosco blinks.
"Déesse. Citroen DS 21. Pallas trim, but the basic chassis is an early 71 model. Classic." Jane lifts a shoulder. "If you're lucky enough to possess something beautiful, you should take good care of it."
Gives a cheerful smile that does not touch his eyes, and slides into the driver's seat.
Bosco, left uneasy, and watching the car turn out of the gate, the black SUV, with Cho at the wheel, following behind.
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Cort, 300 pounds of pure mean bastard, decides that he don't feel like being taken downtown. Busting out ain't gonna be a problem. The gorilla and the gook are cuffing Mikey and Cy. Red looks like she might be fun to take down, and how, but she got a gun, so he guesses he'll just run right over pretty boy, maybe mess his face up a little as he does...
'Cept some evil little bitch comes out of nowhere, sticks a taser in him before he's done more than knock the faggot on his ass...
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Jane, rather grey in the face, clutching his wrist. Flexes his fingers, winces.
"I think it's just sprained..."
"You can't drive." They look at each other in consternation. Then Jane grits his teeth.
"The keys are in my pocket."
...He's letting her drive his car.
She spends a few minutes fussing with the mirrors and the seat, while he watches anxiously. She looks at him, exasperated.
"I drive you around all the time."
"In your car."
"Is this one of your weird male things?"
"...yes."
If pushed, she would admit to a growing fondness for the DS. She had learnt to drive in a station wagon, is used to heaving large vehicles around. It had taken her a while to get used to riding in it, the smaller size, the lighter feel of the car. Driving it is a different thing, too. It's a semi-automatic, for a start, and she spends a few moments getting acquainted with the feel of the accelerator. (Beside her, the owner of the car twitches and grumbles, chuntering about the need for delicacy, power ratios. )
Jane has grown used to being driven by other people over time. He still prefers to drive himself, has gradually overcome Lisbon's resistance, insistence on always driving. But watching her behind the wheel of his precious car...makes him nervous on many levels. Nobody else has driven his baby. Not the practical family vehicle, this is his car, always has been. Flinches through the downtown traffic; she's used to bullying her way through in her own wretched tank of a thing. At least he can put his hisses and winces down to the pain in his hand. He's almost relieved to pull up at the hospital.
Spares a moment to run her hand down the sleek lines of it as she closes the door. Nothing particularly practical about this car, on the face of it. Not something driven by a conformist. Quirky, catching the eye, none of the rugged utility of modern vehicles. But you can blow tyres, and it will still run flat out, a certain endurance to it, even when damaged. This is a car that you have to drive, you have to work at it. No power steering, but responsive under her hands, as she learns it. A lot more powerful than it looks, too. Rather too easy to swing the needle over. It does need a careful touch, delicate handling. But fun, if you're willing to take the chance with it.
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"It's not even a heroic injury." He complains.
"Like your usual punches to the face are heroic?"
They can banter, now, because it isn't serious. It's just a minor sprain, and needs strapping for a couple of days. He's been his usual self when confronted with a hospital, but luckily, it's a slow day, she uses her badge without compunction, and they turn him out before he has done more than be mildly caustic. And this time, he doesn't have the tearing, throat-clogging panic of blindness over him, and he can see the woman holding his other hand. (He had held onto her hand last time, left bruises, but they never mention that.)
"So, are you going to look after me?" Does his best to look pathetic. He is in quite genuine pain, if he's honest with himself. But he's also willing to exploit it, if it will get Lisbon to fuss over him. The look she gives him indicates that she knows this very well.
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Gets back to the office, blandly tells the team that she has left Jane with an ice-pack and sleeping off the pain-killers. Forensics and Ballistics are actually co-operating today, and she has a neat sheaf of papers in her hand when she walks into the interrogation room.
Cort leers at Lisbon, and debates whether to spit on the floor.
"Aww, did I break your boyfriend, sweet-cheeks? He don't look like much of a man to me."
(From behind the glass, Sam Bosco watches, frowns.)
"We're here to talk about Sonny Weisz. The assault charge can wait until later."
"Assault?" Blinks his little piggy eyes. "C'mon, you ain't serious?"
"I'm very serious. So?"
"So I really think you wanna get yourself a piece of real dick, dollface. You can't tell me that that pretty boy does it for you?"
Lisbon surveys her paperwork, leans back in her chair, and raises an eyebrow.
"My 'pretty boy', as you call him, is considerably smarter than you. He spotted where you had the guns stashed. Two M1911A1's and a DE44CA. All we need is for you to explain your motives. But I expect that he can do that for me, too." Taps the paper. "Your...colleague, Mr Cyrus Miller has already confessed to taking a payment for, I quote, 'whacking the rat.'"
Cort starts to sweat. Cy would be the weak link, the chicken-shit.
"Could be anyone's guns..."
"With your fingerprints on the ammunition? He said the Desert Eagle would be yours." A pitying smile, droops her forefinger. "Compensating."
Cort cracks. Rigsby and Cho jam him back into his seat, and she leaves them to deal with him. Has no further interest in his profanity. His face had told her what she needed to know, when she'd mentioned the weapons. She's not really in the mood for Bosco. (Slight dissonance, their strides don't match.)
"What was that about?"
"Slam dunk case. They still had the murder weapons hidden on the premises." Shakes her head in disbelief. She doesn't know how Jane worked it out, but she hadn't doubted him...
"No, the assault charge. Did Mr Jane insult him?"
"No." She stops. "That guy in there made a break for it. Jane just didn't dodge fast enough."
Disgust.
"I knew it. He's not trained to be out in the field. He doesn't even carry a gun." Hitches the Glock on his own belt.
"He doesn't need to. He's got me." She glares.
"You left your team alone to bring in three suspects..."
"Hey! What the hell is this? I left three professionally trained agents to do their job whilst I escorted an injured colleague to hospital."
"And you couldn't delegate that?"
"Why?"
"Why not?"
"Because he is my responsibility. Part of my team."
"No other reason?"
He wouldn't dare.
"Excuse me?"
"Oh, come on, Teresa. I've been here a couple of weeks, and the gossip couldn't be plainer. Hell, even that scumbag in there..."
"Stop. Right. Now." He does not want to take the conversation down this path. She will crucify him if he does.
He senses the precipice. Steps back. Her eyes scorch at him, and then she turns her back, walks away from him.
"Teresa..."
She doesn't turn. Upright and angry, just as strong and as beautiful as when she walked away from him before. He hadn't believed that she was serious, that she would leave him, that she had the strength and the conviction. Wonders how badly he has misread things this time, putting credence in gossip and innuendo. Of course, she's going to be furious with him. He has blundered in, and questioned her professionalism up and down the line. He has to rein himself in.
Sighs, glances into the bull-pen. At least the clown isn't sprawled on that couch. The more he's out of the building and out from underfoot, the better. More chance of a rapprochement with Teresa, a chance to cement a decent working relationship, perhaps try and find a little of the friendship they used to have before it all went sour, before they allowed their feelings to cloud their judgement.
Remembers her temper very well. Knows to leave her to cool down. He'll leave it an hour or so, then try and apologise. After all, he knows that Teresa usually works later hours than most. She'll still be here...
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Van Pelt, who had done herself a similar injury some months back, is all sympathy. She'd had a horrible few days, unable to drive and with the nearest team member to give her a lift to work being Jane himself.
...Jane is rarely short of conversation. He's well-read, and he and Cho have wrangled their way through most of the Classics, and a fair spread of the Moderns, plus a brief sojourn into the less respectable hinterland of pulp sci-fi. With Rigsby, the conversation had taken a sharp turn for the culinary.
"...Squirrel? Seriously, man?"
"...best Kentucky burgoo I ever tasted..."
Of course, he and Lisbon can bicker about anything, or sit in comfortable silence. But he can see that Van Pelt is rather at a loss. They are very different people, opposing beliefs the least of it. She's determined to be polite to him – he didn't need to offer to drive her to work, after all, though she suspects he liked the idea of a captive audience to torment.
Jane is secretly amused. Van Pelt puts the chair back with exactly the same huff with which Lisbon always adjusts it forward. She's a very pretty young woman, and she finds that a burden, wants to be taken seriously. Ambitious, very ambitious, determined to succeed. Seeks to emulate Lisbon, match that steely professionalism.
"You're even scowling like she does." He says, makes her jump.
Different buttons to press, here, though. She's going to have to toughen up if she wants to match their lovely little Boss lady. A suspect will be able to get under her skin far too easily.
Smiles cheerfully. It seems it is his positive duty to assist in the process...
No, it had not been a comfortable few days. Useful, in hindsight, because after being trapped in a car with Jane at his irritating worst, nearly everything else comes as a light relief. But she does feel sorry for him – what can he do with one hand out of action?
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"Jane?"
"Hmm?"
"What are you doing?"
"Trying to see if I can still..."
"Oh!"
"...undo a bra one handed."
"What makes you think I'm that sort of girl?"
"I'm a man. We're always hopeful." Wicked grin against her mouth. "And you've been stealthily undoing my shirt buttons for the past few minutes..."
He won't be able to shave for a couple of days. It always makes him look rougher, naughtier, especially when he does his best 'bedroom eyes' at her, too. Though she's long since come to the conclusion that Patrick Jane, propped up on his elbows in her bed, and looking hopeful, is quite simply the sexiest thing she has ever seen, regardless, and that she is absolutely a lost cause, now.
"The doctor said you have to take it easy."
"I'll take it any way I can get it." Her lover grins up at her, both hands on her hips, the damaged and the undamaged. She bends to kiss him, her laughter soft and wicked as she moves, hears him groan happily.
When she'd told the office that she had left him sleeping, she had never specified where.