.
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The Carnation and the Rose
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.
"Garner had two tickets for the theatre, but his wife's mother is sick, so...I'll pick you up at six, we can eat at that little chinese place round the corner afterwards."
"What?"
"Broaden your cultural horizons, Lisbon." He waggles the two tickets cheerfully. "Makes a change from empty celluloid violence."
"The theatre." This has 'wrong' written all over it.
"Don't make me go on my own." Plays his ace. "You made me sit through that demented thing with the robots in it last week."
Put like that, he has an unfortunately good point. She hadn't even wanted to see the movie that much, but he'd been sitting on his couch and looking particularly bleak. It wasn't like they hadn't been to the movies before, after all. Worried thought.
"It's not a musical, is it?"
Unfeigned horror.
"Euw. No." Grin. "Proper drama."
"Oh, alright." He'll only hang about in her office and nag at her until she gives in, anyway.
"Six, then. And wear something other than jeans for a change, woman."
Jane ducks back out of the office, catches the stress ball she's chucked at him, and lobs it back at her. There's a yelp, and he exits hastily, still grinning, and nearly walks into a man standing in the corridor. Not quite on Rigsby's scale, but a big, fit man in a smart jacket. Nice brown eyes, and quiet good looks.
Bob Veidt. A Nice Guy. Everything Lisbon deserves. Honest, steady, he won't hurt her or trick her.
"Hell. Guess I missed my second chance, then." Hands in pockets, rueful smile.
Jane should set him straight, deny it. Let Lisbon have a chance at happiness. He shouldn't let Veidt go off under the impression...but dammit, the man skipped out on dinner with her.
"Guess you did." he says.
Jane isn't good at dealing with second chances.
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She's spending way too much time choosing something to wear. Huffs irritably. It's only Jane, for heaven's sake. And it's only because he's persuaded her to go to the theatre. Jeans don't seem to fit the occasion. Chews her lip. If she wears a dress, it's going to look like she made too much of an effort. Like it is a date. Which it isn't.
Because a date is where two people assess each other as potential partners, thoughts of an intimate relationship. And she is not allowed to (will not) think of Jane in those terms.
(he has a key to your damn apartment, woman. who are you kidding?)
She's not sure why the idea of sitting in the theatre with him is so much more disturbing than sitting in the multiplex. Maybe because this seems more like something normal coup...people do. Though why it should be any stranger than having him hang out and watch tv, she's not sure. Not that they have done that recently. She sighs. Something has been a little off since...oh, hell.
He's sulking because she went out with another man? She can't even entertain that thought. Won't. He flirts like he breathes, and it doesn't mean anything. (refuses to remember that look she'd surprised in his eyes.) And she is too proud (too scared) to let him know how she feels about him, and why the hell is she still dithering over what to bloody wear?
Damn the man. Nearly gives her a heart attack when he gets up from her couch. She hadn't heard him let himself in.
Jane looks as he always does. She's never seen him out of his suit. In casual clothing, she corrects herself hastily, as mental images spring unbidden. Thinking about what is under that shirt is forbidden. Colleague. Co-worker. Professional boundaries.
(warm skin and hard muscles....stopthatrightnow)
She's wearing those fantastic heels of hers again. And a skirt. She's dressed up for him, though she looks slightly cross and self-conscious about it. He's absurdly gratified.
"You look lovely." Echo of before.
"Why do I let you talk me into things?"
"My irresistible charm."
"Translated to whining like a five year old if you don't get your own way."
"That, too." he admits. Looks entirely too pleased with himself. "Shall we?"
They can do this. She can be his friend. Can banish any wistful dreams of anything more. It's safer that way.
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One of the smaller, artier theatres. She looks quizzically at the poster on the billboard - 'The Atomic Shakespeare Company presents...' and turns on him, amused outrage.
"You are joking, aren't you?"
"It's a classic."
She bats at him, laughing. Typical of the man. Wonders if the tickets were even Garner's to begin with. (They were; Jane wasn't interested until he saw exactly which play they were for.)
"You don't get to run out on me now." Takes her elbow.
Grumbles at him, mock-pout.
"No popcorn?"
"If you're good, I'll get you an ice-cream in the interval."
Quite a mix of people going in. Mixed groups, not just couples. Not that they are a couple. In that sense. Very odd to be out in public like this. She can't imagine spending off-time with any of the other men she works with. And yet, she supposes this isn't so very strange for Jane.
"Make a change to be in the stalls, does it?"
"Yeah." Jane settles himself into his seat. Has to cast his mind back to remember the last time he was in an audience, not playing to one. He suspects he was bored out of his mind at the ballet, one of his wife's efforts to teach him a little culture. But - this is not an evening to think of those things. He is here with Lisbon, and she deserves his total attention. She's looking around her with free and frank interest.
"It's a long time since I was last here." A genuine smile. "This was a good idea."
Jane realizes that he'll sit through pretty much anything if Lisbon smiles at him like that. Even a musical.
They had been a little awkward with each other these last few weeks. He'd meant to stay away, to try and put some distance, and then she'd looked at him with worried eyes, asked him to the movies. And he'd been out of his seat immediately, grateful that she wasn't shutting him out, hating himself, because friendly concern isn't what he wants, and he can't have more.
He can be her friend. He can learn to do that. Can learn to curb his need. But he's not strong enough to let her go. He's always been selfish.
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It's a very funny version of the play. Lean, stripped down text, and the lead actors have a chemistry, finding humour behind the words, subverting the meaning with glances full of passion and fire. Petruchio swaggers across the stage, and Katherina turns her eyes up with such a familiar expression that Jane nearly chokes. Katherina's gritted teeth as she humours Petruchio bring a reminiscent smirk to Lisbon's mouth. Jane can feel her resolutely not looking at him, so he stares sidelong at her until she's quaking with suppressed giggles.
Laughing, they argue through the interval, oblivious to people having to step round them, tutting.
"Meh. We know how it ends. The male asserts his authority by means of subtle mental manipulation."
"Like that would ever happen." Biting back her smile. "He bullies her into submission. Now, where's my ice-cream?"
The couple move through the bickering and the venal bargaining around them, two strong characters, well-matched, engrossed in the joy of their verbal sparring, pacing in time, eyes upon each other. And suddenly, there is one small moment of hush, as Petruchio declares that "she is my goods, my chattels, she is my house..." and there is nothing of mockery in the speech, a man declaring his love.
Katherina's last speech is a masterpiece of wicked sarcasm. And when she puts her hand beneath her husband's foot, she tips him back off his stool, and he lands at her feet. They laugh together. It's she who puts her hand out to him, yanks him from the stage as he tries to have the last word, and the curtains close. Jane isn't watching the actors take their bows; he's watching Lisbon laugh as she applauds.
Good-humoured buzz of a satisfied audience surrounds them. They don't want to break the mood, stop for a drink in the little outside bar, where the drinkers mingle on the steps. And a very pretty and elegantly dressed woman, olive skin, corkscrew dark curls upswept, breaks from a little group and comes towards them.
"Teresa, hi."
They hug. Jane places the face, understands Lisbon's little grin as she beckons him forward.
"This is Patrick. We work together."
Dark eyes sweep him up and down, and she offers a hand.
"Carmen Nivarro. Have we met?"
Jane smiles, wide and wicked.
"Briefly. I, er, crashed a party..."
Carmen yelps, hand over her mouth, composure gone.
"ohshit. Ohmygod. That was you." Horror and amusement. "Oh, hell, I'm sorry. Tez," slaps her friend. "You should have said."
Lisbon waits for Jane to turn on the charm, with just a flash of disquiet. Carmen is taller, prettier, so much more girly than she is...mentally slaps herself. It isn't a competition.
"I'm Teresa's guilty secret." says the evil bastard, cheerfully. "White wine, isn't it, sweetheart?"
Slides away before she can hit him. Carmen immediately rounds on Lisbon, eyes round.
"Babe, he's gorgeous." Grins horribly. "So, does he strip well?"
"I wouldn't know." Lisbon says, not entirely honestly. "We do just work together."
Carmen sighs, looking after him.
"But you've already got him toe-tagged for later, huh?"
Lisbon would like to think it's a case of protecting Jane's privacy, not revealing his past, that makes her shrug, not quite nod and smile. (she knows it isn't. crap) Carmen sighs again, and laughs.
"Oh, I so hope you told the poor man how out of character that was for me."
"Yeah, right." Snigger. "Because you would never randomly make out with, say, some guy at a gig or anything..."
"One time. One time. And you, Miss Prim, were attempting to jump the bass player. Actually, you did jump the bass player."
"Shhh."
Jane, having annoyed half a dozen already waiting patrons by materialising at the bar and instantly drawing the attention of two servers, carries the drinks back. He can see the two women giggling. Lisbon, off-duty and off limits, and so very lovely. She shouldn't ever worry about him looking at another woman. He shouldn't even be looking at her.
He doesn't know why he tortures himself like this. He can't, shouldn't (wants to). Pretending to himself that she could look at him and see more than damage and a cute set of abs, unwilling to find out if she does. Freely admits that he's a confused, guilty mess. Knows how lucky he is that she puts up with him on any terms at all.
Carmen makes a few polite comments, then goes back to her friends, gives Jane a rather wistful smile as she goes. God, Teresa is lucky. Not just the fact that the man is sex personified. It's the way he looks at her, all sweet and protective and hopeful. Laughs to herself; hard-bitten attorney by day, and hopeless romantic by night.
"You were talking about me." Jane says, gleeful.
"What? No." She can't ever lie to him. He grins, leans forward, eyes wicked. She tries to stare him out.
"You let her..."
There's a crash, a shout, sound of breaking glass.
A man dodging through the crowd on the steps, two uniforms in pursuit. Heads turning, noises of alarm and outrage as people are shoved, trip into each other to get out of the way, or to gawk.
And a small, pretty woman kicks off her heels, and barrels into the fray. Man is not expecting the impact. Brutal elegance in the takedown, feet and elbows, and the man lies prone, his captor kneeling astride his back, and trying to hold both thick wrists.
Some of the bystanders applaud.
"Cuffs." She barks at the arriving police officer, who obeys the tone before his brain catches up.
"Lady, what the hell..." Winded and startled.
Jane arrives, holding her purse and discarded heels, beams proudly.
"She's off-duty." he explains.
"What is she when she's on duty? Xena?" The man's eyes are still a bit wide.
Lisbon gets up off her captive, leaves him groaning into the ground. She's taken down bigger and tougher guys than that. Though she's normally better dressed for it.
"Dammit." She surveys her torn nylons, the ruins of her shirt. One sleeve and half the buttons trashed. Jane stops grinning abruptly.
"He hurt you." Livid scratch across her shoulder.
This time it is his hand that touches her bare skin. Sting of the scrape lost beneath the tingling fire of his fingertips. And she becomes suddenly conscious, as she has not been before, of how much of her is on display. She does blush, then, and is furious with herself.
Jane is truly disgusted with himself. Lisbon looks like the heroine of some cheap exploitation flick, tiny in her bare feet, all smooth creamy skin, ripped clothes and tumbled hair, and he's appalled to find that it's a huge turn-on. He's not that sort of man, never has been. He wants to wrap her in his jacket, hustle her away from all eyes, including his own. He feels dirty, even more ashamed that he did when he followed her in 'Frisco.
She looks up. (his eyes, dark with hunger and guilt. her own eyes, wide with shock.)
She wonders why she is so surprised. She's used to Jane flirting, pretty much accepts it, even ignores it. But this is a very direct and different look. The thought that maybe he sees a living woman now, instead of the dead. Angry for him, at him, because he clings to the past and to her, and he can't have both. Angry at herself for thinking any of that, and a bone-deep guilt. So she keeps her voice calm with an effort,
"I'm fine, Jane. I'm just pissed about my shirt."
Face taut, he steps back and shrugs out of his jacket. She doesn't refuse, briskly buttoning it. Without her badge, she'll have to be twice as tough to be taken seriously, and having her cleavage out there won't help.
The officers aren't inclined to mock. In fact, Officer Lucca is more than impressed, and would ask for her number, if it weren't for the fact that she's wrapped in some guy's jacket, and he's standing there, 'possessive boyfriend' written all over him.
Jane sighs as he looks at her. Dwarfed by the police officers, and totally in charge despite her bare feet and disordered clothing. Lisbon, incapable of standing by when justice has to be served. He wouldn't want her any other way. He hovers, a little unsure. She doesn't need his protection, doesn't need him. But she takes his arm for balance as she slips her shoes back on, without stopping the flow of conversation, natural gesture. And so he stands there, holding her purse, obedient to the small hand on his forearm.
"We'll call by the CBI tomorrow for a full statement." Officer Horton says cheerfully. "Don't want to take up any more of your evening."
She's not going to fight it. She has no desire to hang about downtown in this outfit. She feels bruised, and shaken from more than the take-down. Jane, too, has a slightly strained look around his eyes, as she takes her purse back. She sighs.
"I think I'd just like to go home now."
"Yeah." His voice is quiet and a bit sad. That bleakness in his eyes again. Guilt strikes her.
"I'm sorry your quiet cultural evening got ruined. Next time, perhaps we should stick with the celluloid violence." Realizes what she has implied.
"Easier on the wardrobe." So does he. His eyes brighten, and he finds a smile that is nearly normal. "But, apart from that, Mrs Lincoln, how did you enjoy the play?"
Her laughter up at him, his rueful grin back, as they walk out into the night. Perfectly in step with each other, his hand over the small of her back. So they aren't quite a couple the way the world thinks they are. She's his Lisbon, and nobody else's.
"Poor dope looked more shaken than she did." Horton says to his partner. Lucca grins.
"Hell, didja see her take this mook down? She's one scary little pola."
"Guess he likes 'em dangerous."
"Guess he does." Sighs, and shakes his head. "He's one lucky guy."
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….This time, she does not invite him in, (he doesn't expect her to) but she gives him a warm smile.
"Goodnight, Jane...Patrick." Wrinkles her nose. "I can't get used to that."
"A rose by any other name..." Spreads his arms.
"Go away." She goes to poke him, and winces. "Oh, your jacket."
"Keep it tonight." He really doesn't trust himself. "Goodnight...Teresa."
A small, charged moment. If he were any other man, at the end of a date, she would kiss him on the cheek. But he's not and this wasn't, and she can't. Damn him.
Brief, panicked glance of cool lips against her cheekbone, and he's gone.