A/N: This one got away from me. I think for my next installment I will need to challenge myself to adhere to some kind of word limit. This one really stretches the bounds of canon. It turned out to pretty much be an exercise in self-indulgent fluff in which I borrow pretty liberally from other things I've written. But I figure if you can't be self-indulgent in fan fiction, where can you be? More notes under the cut...
xxx
Jane woke up from his nap, refreshed. He stole a look at the copy of the Moro he'd hung opposite his couch and smiled. The code phrase had been apt. She was beautiful. Messing with Cho and Rigsby had been fun, too. As had robbing a Russian gangster. All in all, it had been a very satisfying case.
He stood and stretched, then wandered into the break room to fix himself a cup of tea. The bullpen was dark and quiet, but light spilled from Lisbon's office, signaling that she was working late.
How dreary, he thought. This was a sign. Lisbon clearly needed him to liven up her evening. It was Friday night, after all.
He made her a cup of decaf—the woman drank entirely too much caffeine—and took it to her.
She looked up from a pile of paperwork on her desk. "Hey," she said crisply.
Uh-oh. Her tone was decidedly frosty.
"Hey." He placed the cup of coffee on the corner of her desk and settled down opposite her with his tea.
She looked at the coffee as though it were pond sludge. "Is this supposed to make up for your idiocy?"
"Of course not," he said smoothly. "I'd never try to do that with decaf." He hid his dismay. He hadn't done anything that terrible, had he? He had solved the case, after all.
Now she was looking at the coffee as though it were pond sludge with a topping of frog vomit. "This is decaf?"
"You shouldn't drink caffeine this late at night," he told her, taking a sip of his chamomile.
She snorted. "That's rich, coming from you."
He paused with the cup halfway to the saucer. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"You're up at all hours drinking tea any damn time you please, but you don't think I should have a cup of real coffee. You always think you know what's best, no matter what anyone else thinks," she accused.
He placed his cup in his saucer with more calm than he felt. "We aren't talking about the coffee, are we?"
"Very observant," she said acidly.
He was coming around to it now. "You're still upset about Orlov," he stated.
"Give the man a prize," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "What was your first clue?"
"I told you, Orlov can't complain about me taking the painting," Jane said, taking another sip of his tea. "He was in possession of stolen property. His hands are tied."
She exhaled through her nose, her mouth a tight line. "So not the point, Jane."
He raised his eyebrows. "What is the point, Teresa?"
She looked thrown by the use of her first name for a split second, then decided to ignore it and plowed on. "Do you see all this paperwork?" she demanded, gesturing to the stacks of forms surrounding her.
Jane eyed it dubiously. There did seem to be rather more of it than usual. "Yes."
"Someone at State found out about your little stunt," she told him. "They're pissed as hell. I had to spend all afternoon smoothing it over, and now I'm in paperwork up to my neck. Do you think I like filling out all these reports? That I'm doing it for my health? It's Friday night, Jane. I could be out, having fun. I could have…a…a date, or something."
Jane's gaze sharpened when she mentioned the possibility of spending her Friday night on a date. So why don't you? he thought silently. She could, easily. She was smart and funny and attractive. And instead of allowing some handsome EMT or assistant DA or something to squire her around town, she was stuck here doing hours' worth of paperwork. Her single state was a mystery that had often niggled at the back of his mind, but so far, he hadn't managed to unravel it.
She regretted the reference instantly. He could tell from the panicked way her eyes flicked to his after the words escaped. He could see her desperately wishing to unsay it. She just couldn't figure out how.
She barreled ahead, hoping to bury her ill-considered remark in an avalanche of irritation. She tapped her pen on her desk in annoyance. "Instead, I'm stuck here, because the AG is threatening to throw you out of the CBI and suspend the whole team if I can't convince the State Department to drop the whole thing."
Aware that voicing any sort of comment about Lisbon's dating life, or lack thereof, was likely to dig him even deeper into the hole he was trying to climb out of, Jane went for a diversion. "How did they even find out about the thing with Orlov in the first place?"
He knew it hadn't been Lisbon, despite her anger. Surely Cho and Rigsby hadn't ratted him out.
Lisbon rolled her eyes. "You ripped off a super rich Russian gangster in his home while he was having a party with more than fifty people in attendance. You don't think that story got around?"
"Well," Jane said, a bit ruffled. "I'd at least think that people hanging around a Russian gangster would be smart enough not to blab about it to the State Department."
"The State Department has informants, too," she told him. "Every single one of those people and their counterparts in the department are livid that you risked years' worth of painstaking work for the sake of your vanity and one of your childish pranks."
Jane winced. That remark had hit a little too close for comfort. "You're right. I'm sorry."
"Whatever, Jane," she said wearily. "Can you just—go, so I can finish this sometime before midnight?"
This was a bad sign. Lisbon's temper generally flared and burned fast as quicksilver. Its heat could be deadly when faced full blast, but usually after she vented her spleen by yelling at him for a while, the flames died down and she returned to a state of calm relatively quickly. Despite her most valiant efforts to stay mad at him, more often than not she forgave him far too easily.
This weary resignation was a thousand times worse than being shouted at. His insides squirmed with guilt. She looked genuinely upset. Because of him. The thought bothered him more than he wanted to admit to himself. "I'm sorry," he said again quietly.
She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Sometimes," she said quietly, "I just wish you would think a little more about how the consequences of your actions affect people other than yourself."
The words cut him to the bone. He was forcibly reminded of the disastrous consequences of his most spectacular failure to do just that. The one that haunted his dreams and poisoned every breath he took.
Lisbon opened her eyes. She took a deep breath, gathering her composure, then looked up. "Don't mind me, Jane. I'll get over it. Just—let me wrap this up, okay? I'll feel better in the morning."
He stood up. "Listen, Lisbon," he said earnestly. "I am sorry. I'll make it up to you, I promise."
She smiled tiredly, but he could tell she didn't believe him. "Sure, Jane."
He felt a pang in his chest. He would make it up to her.
He left quietly, an idea formulating in his mind about how to do just that.
Xxx
He felt much better the next morning. His plan was a good one—he was sure it would work.
He knocked on her door at eight am sharp.
There was no answer right away, so he knocked again. Her car was parked outside the building, so he was sure she was home.
When she finally flung the door open, it was clear he'd woken her. Apparently, Agent Teresa Lisbon liked to sleep in on the weekends. He'd always suspected as much, given her general irritability when roused for early morning cases, but it was nice to have one's theories confirmed. She was still in her sleepwear. Namely, an oversized Chicago Bears t-shirt and a pair of cotton shorts that left miles and miles of pale, slender legs exposed to him.
He stared. The image of Teresa Lisbon's bare legs was quite a sight to behold. Good God. The woman's legs went on for days. Sleek and toned, delightfully smattered with freckles—
"Jane? What the hell are you doing here?" Lisbon demanded in unflattering astonishment.
Jane licked his lips. They'd suddenly gone dry for some reason. "I, uh…"
He seemed to have lost the thread, somehow. Why had he come? He was fairly certain he hadn't come in hopes of seeing Lisbon's bare legs. That had been an entirely unexpected pleasure.
Her expression changed. "Jane?" she asked, her voice filled with worry. "What's the matter? Are you okay?"
He nodded mutely.
She sucked in a breath. "The team?" she said, her face pale with dread.
The frightened concern in her voice brought him back to himself. "Everyone's fine, Lisbon," he assured her. "I didn't come bearing bad news, I promise."
"Thank God," she breathed. She paused. "But then—what are you doing here?"
"I came to take you to breakfast," Jane informed her.
She stared at him. "You what?"
He gave her his most dazzling grin. "I'm taking you to breakfast."
"Why?" she asked suspiciously.
"I told you, I want to make the whole potential international incident thing up to you."
"And you thought the best way to do that was to show up on my doorstep uninvited at eight am on a Saturday?" she said incredulously.
"Come on, Lisbon. I know a great little diner at the edge of town. They make the best coffee in Sacramento. So I've heard, anyway."
"It had better not be decaf," she said with a scowl.
"Not to worry, my dear. This will be a fully caffeinated experience, I promise."
She sighed. "Fine. But only because I'm hungry and you're buying."
"That's the spirit. Now, run along and get dressed. If we hurry, we can beat the morning rush."
She muttered an oath under her breath.
He'd been hoping to wrangle an invitation to wait inside so he could snoop around her apartment while she dressed. She shut the door in his face before he could put a toe across the threshold.
"I'll just wait here, then," he said to the door. He sat down on her front step and set about committing the sight of Lisbon's bare legs to his memory palace. He knew it was a bad idea, for various reasons he seemed to have to remind himself of more and more often the longer he knew her, but he couldn't help himself. Legs like that ought to be appreciated, even if it was only in the confines of his own mind. As long as he restricted the indulgence to the boundaries of his memory palace, surely it was safe.
Lisbon returned less than ten minutes later, fully dressed. He had to give credit where credit was due—she certainly was efficient. "Let's go," she said shortly.
He stood and swept his arm out in a grandly chivalrous gesture. "After you, my dear."
Xxx
Not surprisingly, Lisbon didn't say much over breakfast. He didn't push her. She wasn't a morning person, and he knew his chances of getting her into a good temper would not be helped by an insistence on conversation this early in the morning. She relaxed when she realized he wasn't going to make her talk and focused on the food, instead. She mellowed considerably once he got a cup of coffee and a plate of eggs with bacon and toast in her. By the time he persuaded her to split a chocolate croissant with him, all the tension had left her neck and shoulders ('Appeal to her sweet tooth' was Rule #37 in the 'How to soften Teresa Lisbon's temper' handbook).
"Thanks for breakfast," Lisbon said when they walked out to the car.
"You're welcome," he said, unlocking the car.
Lisbon offered no further conversation until two minutes later, when he turned, not back towards her apartment, but in the direction of the interstate instead. She frowned. "You're going the wrong way."
"No, I'm not," Jane said cheerfully, accelerating as he approached the onramp for the freeway.
"My apartment's back that way," Lisbon said, gesturing over her shoulder.
"I'm aware of that, Lisbon," he said, merging onto the freeway and heading for the causeway. "We're not going back there just yet."
"What the hell, Jane?" she exploded.
Jane kept his eyes on the road. "I thought we'd go into San Francisco for the day."
Her eyes bugged out. "You what?"
"I'm making up the Orlov thing to you, remember?"
"I thought that was what breakfast was for."
"No, breakfast was just to get you in the car in the first place." Seeing her expression out of the corner of his eye, he added hastily, "And to experience the pleasure of a fine meal in your delightful company, of course."
"Spare me," she muttered.
Jane ignored this. "Breakfast was just the precursor to the main event."
"Which is what?" Lisbon asked with dread.
"The Museum of the Legion of Honor. In honor of our time with the Moro, I thought we could spend some quality time with a few other masterpieces."
"You think forcing me to spend my day off going to some boring old museum is going to make up for the stunt you pulled with Orlov?" Lisbon said incredulously.
"Firstly, the Museum of the Legion of Honor is not a boring old museum," Jane said. "It's a premier institution with one of the finest collections in the state. Secondly, you should consider yourself lucky. I considered taking you to the Museum of Modern Art, but knowing your tastes as I do, I assumed you'd prefer a more traditional artistic experience."
"A modern art museum?" Lisbon said, appalled. "You mean those places where people lock themselves in a box for three days and call it art?"
"I guess we'll have to work up to more abstract representations," Jane mused. "Not to worry, though. The Museum of the Legion of Honor has plenty of exhibits I'm sure you'll enjoy."
Lisbon looked like she was seriously considering throwing herself out of the moving car if it would get her out of spending the day perusing famous works of art and fascinating historical artifacts with him. "I hate museums," she said flatly.
"Nonsense," Jane said. "Who hates museums?"
"Lots of people," Lisbon said. "People who prefer activities with a little more action than looking at endless paintings on a flat white wall."
"If you're nice to me," Jane said, changing lanes. "Maybe I'll take you to a baseball game next time. But I really can't allow your current perception of museums to stand, Lisbon. I have a cultural responsibility to make sure you understand the depth and richness of beauty the greatest masterpieces have to offer."
"You really, really don't," Lisbon said.
"Of course I do," Jane said. "Besides, what with all the switching going on with copies and whatnot, you never got a chance to properly appreciate the Moro. Taking you to see the works of some of the other masters to make up for that is the least I can do."
Lisbon looked dubious. "I don't know. I would have been happy with less."
"Nonsense," Jane said. "You're going to love it."
Lisbon hunched down in her seat and scowled.
Xxx
Their excursion did not start out on a promising note.
Lisbon evidenced no interest in his lecture on the Dutch masters. Instead, she spent their first ten minutes inside the museum scanning the crowd suspiciously, as though patrolling for signs of criminal activity.
"Jane," she said, nudging him in the side and interrupting his rhapsodizing on the brilliance of Vermeer. "That guy over there with the lumpy backpack. Do you think he could be concealing an explosive device in there?"
Jane looked around and took a closer look at the young man in question. He wore nothing but black, had a tendency to squint, and had made the admittedly unfortunate decision to grow a thin, ratty looking mustache on his upper lip, but otherwise he looked harmless to Jane. "No," he said firmly. "The shifty eyes are due to poor eyesight, and the backpack is probably full of art supplies."
"Art supplies?" Lisbon echoed as the young man disappeared around the corner. "Are you sure?"
"Fairly sure," Jane said. "Black clothes, terrible mustache… he has art student written all over him."
Lisbon looked unconvinced. Jane sighed. "Come on, I'll prove it to you. Put your mind at rest."
He placed his hand at the small of her back and ushered her off in the direction the young man had headed.
They found him several moments later, pulling out a sketchbook in a secluded corner of the gallery in front of a Rubens painting.
"Told you," Jane whispered in her ear.
Lisbon didn't answer, just watched in fascination as the young man made his first stroke on the page, so intent on his subject he remained oblivious to the fact that they were blatantly staring at him.
Jane kept his hand at the small of her back and steered her away. "Come on," he said. "We'll come back when he's a little further along, see how he's doing."
Lisbon reluctantly allowed herself to be dragged away. She didn't seem as interested in Rubens as his artistic admirer, however. Jane tried to draw her attention to the composition and form of the painting nearest them, but she was distracted and he didn't have much success.
Her eyes tracked on an elderly woman in an elegant Chanel suit and a string of pearls. Jane wondered if Lisbon thought the woman might be some kind of high class art thief. Then she fidgeted and he realized she was uncomfortable rather than suspicious. He paused. "What's the matter?"
"Nothing," she said, evading his gaze. Her eyes flicked to the pearls again and she shifted on one foot.
Ah. He thought he saw the problem now. "You didn't go to a lot of art museums growing up, did you?"
She shrugged uncomfortably. "Not really. A couple of field trips, that sort of thing. That's about it."
No doubt art museums were considered an unnecessary luxury in the working class Lisbon household. Lisbon must feel that fine art museums were the domain of snooty rich people, not the daughter of an ER nurse and a firefighter. He knew no good would come of pointing this out, however, so he said instead, "Well, that's no way to properly enjoy fine art. Surrounded by rowdy, snickering ten year olds and constantly under the watchful eye of a stern and disapproving nun. No wonder you hate museums."
She exhaled her relief. "I'm glad you understand. Can we please go home now?"
"No. Now I see it's even more important to change your mind about museums."
"I'm telling you, Jane, museums are not my thing," she said, frustrated. "You might as well just save your breath."
Jane ignored her. He stepped forward and took her hands in his.
Lisbon resisted instinctively, her eyes widening as she attempted to pull her hands away. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" she demanded.
"You're worrying too much about the other people around you," Jane said firmly. He gripped her hands and refused to let go. "Forget the snot-nosed kids in your class and Sister Mary Whosis. Forget the art student-cum-terrorist and that woman over there in the Chanel knockoff." It wasn't a knockoff, but Lisbon didn't need to know that. "There has to be at least one piece of art that you remember liking."
Lisbon continued to try to tug her hands out of his grip. "I don't think so."
He held fast and didn't let her go. "Close your eyes."
She shot him her 'no way in hell' look. "What, are you going to hypnotize me into becoming an art lover?"
"So suspicious. I promise you, I have nothing so sinister in mind. I'm just trying to get you to relax so you can get into the proper frame of mind to enjoy this lovely day at the museum." He squeezed her hands. "Trust me."
"Famous last words," she grumbled.
"Oh, don't be like that. Come, now. Close your eyes."
She couldn't resist rolling her eyes one more time, but at his urging, she closed them at last.
"Very good," Jane said encouragingly. "Now, there must be at least one piece of art you've run across in your life that you remember liking."
"I guess," Lisbon said doubtfully.
"Okay, then. Forget all about the other people in this museum. Forget about the annoying boys in your class and the nun glaring at everyone. Remember that art isn't for young or old, rich or poor. That's not what art is about."
Lisbon tilted her head to one side, her eyes still closed. "What is it about, then?"
"Art is for everyone," he told her, watching her eyes flicker beneath her closed eyelids. "It is a great equalizer. Nobody can tell you what to think about a piece of art. Everyone who looks at it might find a different piece of meaning in it. It's about communicating thoughts and ideas when words aren't adequate to express them. It's a conversation. The artist starts the conversation by putting his idea on canvas. And you finish the conversation by reacting to it. You might hate it, love it, or be completely indifferent towards it. It's not about art theory or technique or style. All you have to do to hold up your end of the conversation is to feel something." He squeezed her hands again. "Now, tell me the last piece of art you remember liking for its own sake, not because it was some great masterpiece or whatever. Just tell me about a piece of art that you liked, just because you liked it."
She bit her lip.
"Go on," Jane said encouragingly. "You thought of one, didn't you?"
"Yeah," she admitted. "It was—it's a famous one. I don't remember the name of it. It's that one made up of all those tiny dots. It's a picture of a bunch of people in a park, by a lake or something." She frowned a little, a crease forming between her closed eyes. "A Sunday Afternoon in Paris?" she guessed.
"A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte," Jane said, smiling. "Georges Seurat. Father of pointillism. It's a real park, next to a river. The painting is at the Art Institute of Chicago. Did you see it there on one of your field trips?"
She shook her head. "My mom and I did a puzzle of it together one Christmas." She smiled faintly, remembering. "A thousand pieces."
"Sounds like a tough one," Jane commented.
"It was," she confirmed, her eyes still closed. "About half the pieces were some shade of green."
"What was it that you liked about it?" Jane asked.
She squeezed her eyes more tightly closed, trying to remember. "I dunno. I guess it just looked kind of peaceful, you know? All the people are kind of doing their own thing, but they're all out there together, enjoying the park on a beautiful day."
Jane resolved to take her to a park to get ice cream at the earliest possible convenience. One with no dead bodies or witness interviews or any such similar indicators of criminal activity. "Very good. Now, keep your eyes closed."
Predictably, she cracked one eye open in suspicion. He smiled at her. "No peeking."
She heaved a put upon sigh and dutifully closed her eyes once again.
He released her hands and slid his hands up to her shoulders. He slowly and deliberately turned her around three times, then let her go. "All right, you can open your eyes now."
Lisbon opened her eyes and blinked. Jane gestured around them. "Okay. Out of all the paintings in this room, which one do you like the best?"
She shied away, flinching slightly. "Oh—I don't know. I told you, Jane, I really don't know anything about art."
It was his turn to roll his eyes. "I'm not asking you to critique the finer points of the artistic technique, Lisbon. I'm just asking you which one of the two dozen paintings in your immediate vicinity most speaks to you."
Lisbon glanced around. "I dunno," she muttered. She flung her arm out seemingly at random and pointed. "That one, I guess."
Jane followed the trajectory of her arm to a painting on the opposite side of the room. He walked over to it to examine it more closely, noting the title. Lisbon followed. "'Young Boy Singing,'" he read aloud. The picture was indeed of a young boy singing, a sheet of music clutched in both hands, candlelight shining through the paper and bathing the young singer's pale face in golden light. "Interesting. Not the most original title, I must say," he mused. "Still, it's a nice painting. What is it that drew you to it?"
Lisbon shrugged. "The lighting is pretty cool, I guess."
Jane read the plaque next to the painting. "Well spotted, Lisbon. It's by 'The Candlelight Master.' What else do you like about it?"
Lisbon hesitated. "Well—it just got me wondering. Why is this kid staying up so late to sing? I mean, I guess it could have been winter and gotten dark early, but still. I mean, candles used to be expensive back then, right? He doesn't look poor, but he doesn't look rich, either. He probably had chores during the day, but he takes the time to practice his music late at night, when he's tired and everyone else in the house is probably resting."
"I see," Jane teased her. "You identify with him because you can relate to him as a fellow workaholic."
She smacked him on the shoulder, but then turned her attention back to the painting. "No," she said, her voice a little wistful. "I just think he must have really loved the music."
Jane decided he liked this interpretation. "I think you're right."
Lisbon turned to him expectantly. "Okay. Your turn."
"Hm?" Jane said, studying the notes on the sheet of paper in the boy's hands, backlit by the bright candlelight.
Lisbon folded her arms across her chest. "Your turn," she repeated. "Which one is your favorite?"
Jane decided indulging her was the best means of securing the success of his plan. He cast his eyes around the room, making a show of pondering over his selection. "That one," he decided finally, pointing at a painting several frames away from where they were standing.
Lisbon walked over to it. "'The Triumph of Amphitrite,'" she read.
"Goddess of the sea," Jane confirmed. "Wife of Poseidon."
Lisbon looked at it more closely. "It almost looks like a sculpture more than a painting," she observed. "It looks like it's coming right off the canvas."
"It's a technique called 'trompe l'oeil,'" Jane told her. "It means 'trick of the eye' in French."
Lisbon snorted. "Only you would find a painting appealing because its central feature is a means to trick the audience."
Jane glanced at her. "Maybe I just admire the majesty of the sea."
"Uh-huh," Lisbon said, unconvinced.
In the next room, Lisbon chose Bougereau's 'Broken Pitcher' as her favorite. "Her eyes are so sad," Lisbon remarked, studying the young girl in a long skirt and shawl sitting by a well. "They make her look like she's older than she really is, don't they?"
"More than you know," Jane said. He pointed to the broken jug at the girl's feet. "The broken pitcher symbolizes loss of virginity. Hard to say from this whether Bougereau is implying she might have been raped, or if he was merely commenting on the perception of the precocious sexuality of peasant girls at the time."
"What?" Lisbon looked scandalized. "She can't be more than twelve!"
Jane shrugged. "Just goes to show the sexualization of children is hardly a modern concept. It is a well-executed portrait, I'll give him that."
Lisbon glared at the picture as though she wished she could go back in time and arrest the artist for child pornography and whisk the girl off to safety. "I hope she smashed that pitcher over his head," was her final comment on the piece.
Jane's selection from the same room was 'The Thunderstorm,' a Dutch painting of a ship on the verge of capsizing, with a smaller boat coming to its rescue. He was full of praise for the artist's dramatic lighting and use of texture, but Lisbon wasn't impressed.
"I like that one better," she said, pointing to the painting next to it.
Jane peered at it. "Ice fishing?" he said, perplexed. The artist had rendered the scene competently enough, but he failed to see what about 'Fishing Under the Ice on the Maas' had won Lisbon's favor.
She shrugged. "All the people in the picture are working together for the good of the community. I think that's nice."
"Huh," Jane said, examining the painting more closely. The subject matter hadn't drawn his attention at first, so he hadn't devoted much thought to the scene. Now that he was looking at it more carefully, he could see her point. Attending a museum with Lisbon was turning out to be even more interesting than he'd hoped.
The next room was devoted primarily to works depicting the birth of Christ and other religious paintings in the same vein. Personally, this kind of painting bored Jane to tears. While he could admire the techniques employed by the individual artists, privately, he was of the opinion that if you'd seen once religious Renaissance painting, you'd seen 'em all. Still, given her Catholic upbringing, he was curious which one Lisbon would respond to most. She rarely spoke of her faith—well, never, really. At least, not to him. He supposed he couldn't blame her for that. He'd never made his own less than devout views on religion a secret, after all. He watched her look over the paintings in the Jesus room (that was what he was calling it in his head, anyway) and tried to guess which she'd choose as her favorite.
She surprised him again. He saw her glance at the multitude of paintings of the birth of Christ and the Crucifixion without much interest, though she did point out a few Biblical references Jane wasn't familiar with here and there. She lingered over a painting of Jesus as a young shepherd, complete with sheep to tend, but this one did not win the favored status.
"That one," she declared, pointing.
Jane ambled over to the painting she'd indicated. "El Greco, huh? Interesting choice." Of all the florid, ostentatious paintings in the room, she'd chosen 'St. Francis Venerating the Crucifix,' a dark, grim looking painting almost completely lacking in color. The painting featured the titular saint in a gray cloak, gazing beatifically at a miniature figure of Christ on the cross, propped up by what appeared to be a human skull. The whole thing was set off by an even darker backdrop of an ominous mountain looming in the background. What about this austere scene had struck a chord with Lisbon, he wondered.
Perhaps it was the austerity itself that appealed to her, he realized. The idea that even if life gave you nothing but a worn, patched cloak and an old skull for your trouble, at least you had the loving warmth of your Savior to get you through the tough times.
"He looks happy, doesn't he?" Lisbon commented. "Peaceful." She was silent for a moment. "The artist had true faith," she said finally.
Jane glanced at her, intrigued. "As opposed to the other artists in here, you mean?"
She was quiet again. "I had an art requirement in college," she said at last. "I took art history."
He smiled. "I'm guessing it wasn't your favorite class."
"I only took it because it fit in my schedule," she confirmed. "The professor had this old slide projector. He'd click through the slides and drone on and on about the influence of Christianity in European art." She grimaced. "I had a heavy course load that semester, and I was working part time. It was all I could do not to fall asleep in the middle of his lectures."
Jane's ears perked up. "What's this? Teresa Goody-Two-Shoes Lisbon falling asleep in class?"
"It was dark in there!" Lisbon said defensively. "Anyway, I wasn't asleep. Just bored."
"Go on," Jane said encouragingly.
"The point is, he was obsessed with the Christian themes in all those Renaissance paintings," she said, glancing around at the gaudy representations of Christ in palaces and similarly grand surroundings. "But personally, I got the feeling half of them were just painted on commission because the king needed another picture for his throne room or something."
Jane chuckled. "You may not be wrong about that."
"But then he switched to architecture. He talked a lot about Notre Dame, in Paris."
"What about it?" Jane said, curious to know where she was going with this.
"He talked about the arches and vaulted ceilings representing the ascent to Heaven, and even the layout of the building as a whole being laid out in the shape of a cross. He showed slides of the stained glass windows and talked about how long it took to build it. At first, all I could think was that it was such a waste of money. All that money spent supposedly in the name of God. I figured God would rather that the king or whoever just give that money to feed the poor or heal the sick, not waste time on one stupid building that wasn't even designed to give shelter to His children. But then he showed us pictures of the interior. Every pillar and arch carved in meticulous detail. Those beautiful windows, lighting up stories from the Bible from the outside. And I thought—" She bit her lip and plowed on. "I thought about the person who commissioned it in the first place, and the architect—or team of architects, who must have worked so hard to design something so beautiful. And it was a church, not a palace. It was built as a house for God, with no other purpose in mind. I remember the professor said it took over a hundred years to build. Can you imagine that? The original people who wanted to create it never even got to see it completed. But others picked up the work and finished it. And when it was done, it was so beautiful and intricate. All those workers, each working on their own little piece and making each detail perfect. It was like—a love letter to God. One that was started by the designer and finished a hundred years later by who knows how many people working together. I remember being blown away by the idea that someone could love God so much that they were inspired to create something so incredibly vast and beautiful to honor Him. It's—it's kind of amazing, isn't it?"
"Yes," Jane said softly. "It is." He couldn't relate to the idea, exactly, but he could appreciate the concept of multiple generations working towards a common vision.
Lisbon gestured around them. "Anyway, maybe some of these artists were inspired in the same way. I don't know." She looked at the El Greco. "But this one, I know for sure."
She glanced at Jane. "You probably think that's silly, don't you?" she said, embarrassed.
He held her gaze. "No. I don't."
She looked back at him, a question in her eyes. "What do you think, then?"
"I think," he said slowly. "That anything created with a truly loving heart is something to be treasured and admired. Even if I don't believe in the same things that person's heart holds true myself."
Lisbon looked satisfied by this answer. "Okay."
He held her gaze a moment longer. "Want to get some lunch?"
She smiled. "All right. What did you have in mind?"
The Museum of the Legion of Honor was in a beautiful spot overlooking the Pacific and the Golden Gate Bridge, so Jane had packed a picnic. They ate their sandwiches on a bench under a handful of cypress trees, looking out over the water.
Jane had been expecting Lisbon to have had enough museum time by now, but when they finished their lunch and she didn't immediately demand to be taken back to Sacramento, he interpreted this as a sign that she might be amenable to spending a couple more hours in the museum.
"What do you say?" he asked. "You up for staying a while longer?"
"I guess it wouldn't hurt to stay a little longer," she said neutrally. "Since you want to all the trouble to drag me down here in the first place."
That carefully neutral tone meant she was enjoying herself. If she'd been bored, she wouldn't have been shy about letting him know that.
He grinned, pleased. "Stockholm syndrome setting in, eh?"
"That must be it," she agreed, but she couldn't hide her dimple quirking on one side.
They came across their artistic friend not long after they re-entered the museum. He'd finished his Rubens sketches and had moved on to Renoir. He worked quickly and deftly, Jane noted. He spied two completed Rubens sketches, and the Renoir was already well underway. The young man was talented, he had to give him that.
The young man saw them watching him this time and gave them a smile.
Emboldened, Lisbon stepped closer to look at his sketches more closely. "Your work is beautiful," she told him.
The young man shook his head and Jane noticed he wore a hearing aid in one ear. The artist wrote a note on the corner of a blank sheet in his sketchpad. Jane craned his neck so he could read it.
'Not as beautiful as you.'
Apparently the young Lothario could read lips, Jane noted.
Lisbon, predictably, turned scarlet. "Oh—no," she stammered, shaking her head violently and unconsciously taking half a step back. Clearly mortified, she looked to Jane for help, but when she met his gaze, she blushed even harder and immediately looked away.
Amused, Jane stepped in to smooth things over. "You have a very discerning eye," he told the young artist. "Are you a student?"
The young man confirmed that he was. Jane spoke to him a few minutes longer, then politely thanked him for his time and told him they would let him return to his work.
They moved away from the young artist and returned their attention to Renoir and his compatriots. Lisbon gamely pointed out her favorites and Jane gladly returned the favor, drawing her into a lengthy debate about Cezanne's skill compared to Pisarro.
Midway through this discussion, Jane noticed their young artist friend had abandoned his study of Renoir and moved on to a more animated source of inspiration. The young man cast furtive glances in Lisbon's direction, his pencil flying over the page.
Jane smirked to himself and decided to indulge in a little harmless collusion. He took Lisbon by the elbow and steered her in the direction of a conveniently situated Manet, thus distracting her from noticing the young artist's activities while continuing to afford the young man a clear line of sight to his chosen subject.
When Lisbon declared she'd had enough of Impressionism, they moved on to an exhibit of neo-classical French furniture, exquisitely crafted down to the finest delicate detail.
Lisbon lingered over the ornately carved furniture and gilded columns. "I can't imagine ever living in a place where anything in this room would possibly fit in with the rest of my stuff, but I have to admit, it is beautiful," she commented.
"Well, if you were charged with furnishing an eighteenth century French palace, which thing from this room would you pick?" Jane asked, continuing their 'favorites' game.
Lisbon chose a beautiful writing desk with a dozen cubbies and hidey holes as her favorite. Jane teased her that this was a sign that even if she'd been a French royal, she still would have been a workaholic. She'd have been up late poring over the census rolls and worrying about how to feed the poor while the rest of the royal retinue was off attending fancy balls, dining on roast boar and drinking fine red wine.
She retaliated by teasing him for being equally predictable in his selection, which was, of course, a couch. A Louis XVI era divan upholstered in richest red velvet, to be precise.
"You'd probably sleep through the beheadings," she remarked. "You'd find a place to nap even if Robespierre himself was after you."
Jane shook his head. "That couch is no good for napping," he said, eyeing the high, unforgiving armrests. "Every couch to its purpose, Lisbon."
She quirked an eyebrow at him. "Every couch to its purpose?"
"Yes. That couch is clearly not designed for a cozy mid-afternoon nap," he said. He grinned wickedly at her. "It's far more suitable for seducing royal French beauties."
Lisbon rolled her eyes, but couldn't prevent a slight flush from creeping up her neck.
Jane belatedly remembered he'd cast Lisbon in the role of royal French beauty not a moment ago. He hastily added, "And for conning rich lords out of their most valuable family heirlooms, of course."
Lisbon relaxed. "Of course."
Xxx
They passed the next couple of hours in the kind of easy companionship he realized he'd come to rely on with Lisbon. Challenging conversation, light banter, a healthy dose of mutual teasing. A peaceful quiet filled the spaces between their exchanges. Lisbon was certainly not the type to chatter for chatter's sake. Just as he did on late nights in the office, he found her quiet, steady presence a restful influence. She truly was excellent company. There was no one else he'd rather kidnap on a Saturday afternoon, really.
When he noticed she was clearly longing for a mid-afternoon jolt of caffeine, he steered her to the museum café. He bought her an over-priced latte and delivered it to her at the little table he'd commandeered for them.
"Thanks," she said gratefully, accepting the cardboard cup and curling her fingers around it.
"You're very welcome," he said, pleased. He rocked on his heels and looked over his shoulder. "Will you be all right here for a few minutes?" he asked, bouncing a little on his toes. "I'd like to look around the gift shop for a few minutes."
She waved him off. "Go," she said. "I'm fine."
"Okay." He paused. "Let me know if you need help uncovering any more terrorist plots."
"Hush," she said, throwing a crumpled up napkin at him and making a face. He chuckled and headed to the gift shop.
Once there, he paused at a rack of postcards and made a show of perusing them with a look of concentrated attention, sneaking periodic glances at Lisbon. Once he'd assured himself she was thoroughly engaged with her coffee and watching the passersby, he ducked out of sight and made a beeline for the back of the store and headed out the second entrance.
He tracked down their artistic friend several galleries away, this time sketching a sculpture of a very ugly but incredibly lifelike old woman. He waited for the young man to notice him.
When the artist looked up, Jane flashed him a dazzlingly bright smile. "I'd like to see it," he announced.
The artist hesitated, then wrote 'See what?' on his sketchpad.
Jane's grin widened. "I think you know what. Come on, let's have it. I want to see how good you are at working from a live model."
The artist sighed and flipped over the last two pages of his sketchbook, revealing a portrait of a woman, head and shoulders.
"Ah, excellent," Jane said, delighted. He gestured to the sketchbook. "May I?"
The artist hesitated again, then grudgingly handed the sketchbook over.
Jane took it by the edges, careful not to smudge any of the sketches inside. He studied the sketch in question intently, noting the play of shadow and light in the subject's eyes. Yes, the young man certainly was talented. No doubt about it. The dark curls tumbling over her shoulders, the delicate bone structure belying the woman's iron strength… it was all there. The full mouth, the arch of her brow—it was Lisbon to a T. But where the artist had really excelled was in the eyes. The gray pencil sketch didn't reveal the rich green color, but it didn't matter. The artist had caught the way that when the light hit them, those eyes were unfathomable. Light and deep, profound compassion and understanding gazing out at him, clear and direct, yet still concealing some mystery that lurked in their depths. One he'd had yet to unravel, even after all this time.
Jane stared at the sketch a long time. He was only roused from his admiration of the portrait when the artist nudged him and gestured towards a note on a loose sheet of sketch paper.
Jane squinted down at it. 'What do you think?' it read.
Jane looked back at the sketch and didn't answer right away.
"How much do you want for it?" he asked finally, surprising both himself and the artist.
The artist shook his head and wrote another note. He pushed it towards Jane. 'It's not for sale.'
Jane felt a stab of irritation that he recognized was entirely out of proportion to the young man's response. He pasted on a cheerful smile. "Come now. You're a student. Probably up to your neck in debt, staying in a crappy basement apartment, and living off ramen and peanut butter sandwiches. You could obviously use the money."
The young man shook his head stubbornly. 'I want it for my portfolio,' he wrote.
Jane could hardly blame him for this—it was a remarkable piece of work. Still, he could hardly let the sentiment stand. "I'll pay cash."
It took a lengthy amount of skillful negotiation, but eventually they reached a mutually acceptable agreement. Jane got the sketch. In exchange, he parted with an exorbitant amount of money and agreed to let the artist take a picture of the original with his cell phone so he could reference it for future studies. The bargain struck, Jane clutched the sketch protectively and shook the young man's hand, wishing him the best of luck in his artistic career. Hopefully his unexpected windfall today would set him up nicely with some good quality art supplies to keep building his portfolio, Jane thought wryly.
Jane headed back to the gift shop. He spent a few minutes examining the selection, then headed to the cash register.
He emerged from the gift shop with a large gift bag emblazoned with the museum's logo and headed back to Lisbon.
He greeted her with a smile. "Hey. Ready to go?"
"Sure." She threw away her empty coffee cup and they walked together towards the museum exit.
"So," she said, casting a sidelong glance at the gift bag he carried. "What'd you get?"
He cast his own glance back at her and raised his eyebrows. "Isn't it obvious?"
She nudged him with her elbow. "Come on, Jane. What's in the bag?"
"It's a souvenir shop, Lisbon," Jane said, shaking the bag a little. "Obviously, what's in the bag is…souvenirs."
"Planning to decorate the area around your couch with a few more reproductions of European masterpieces?"
He grinned at her. "Wouldn't you like to know."
He thoroughly enjoyed the rest of the walk back to the car. Lisbon was clearly dying to know what he'd bought, but didn't want to give him the satisfaction of letting him know how much she wanted to know. Watching her struggle with herself on this point was highly entertaining.
He didn't have to wait long before her curiosity got the better of her. They'd barely got their seatbelts on when she turned towards him. "Come on, Jane," she said, attempting a semblance of her 'don't mess with me' look but undermining it with a slight pout he was certain she was unaware of. "What's in the bag?"
He paused. "You really want to know what's in the bag?"
She huffed in exasperation. "Why else would I ask?"
"Very well," he conceded. "I'll show you."
He made a production of pulling the first item out of the bag. "Ta da!" he said proudly, holding up a thick hardbound volume for inspection.
"'Ships on the Open Sea,'" she read from the cover. "'An examination of seascapes by the Dutch masters of the seventeenth century. Wow, Jane," she remarked. "Some really fascinating reading material you've got yourself there."
"I thought so," Jane said airily. He pulled the second item out of the bag and handed it to her. "This one's for you."
She blinked in surprise. "For me?"
"Of course," he said, starting the car and backing out of the parking spot. "You need a souvenir, too."
She hesitated. Turned the tissue wrapped parcel over in her hands. "You didn't have to do that."
"Nonsense," he said, pulling out of the parking lot. "I wanted to. Go on. Open it." He flashed her a grin. "You know you want to."
She gingerly unwrapped the tissue as though she were expecting a bunch of live snakes to jump out at her from under the wrappings. None did. Instead, a simple wooden box emerged from the white tissue paper. The box was about a foot wide, half again as high, and maybe eight inches deep. Delicately carved leaves and vines inlaid on the top panel dipped and swirled their way across the lid of the box. It was a perfect reproduction of a wooden chest she'd admired from a special exhibit on Indonesian woodworking they'd come across in the last hour of their exploration of the museum's galleries.
Lisbon turned the box over wonderingly. "It's beautiful," she said softly.
"Glad you like it," Jane said, pleased.
She hesitated. "I really shouldn't—"
"Woman, if you say a single word about not being able to accept it for some silly bureaucratic reason, I will pitch that box into the San Francisco Bay," he warned. "Just say 'thank you, Jane' and call it good."
She bit her lip. "Thank you, Jane."
He nodded, satisfied. "You're very welcome."
She looked down at the box in her lap. "What am I supposed to put in it?"
He shrugged. "Whatever you like. Letters, maybe."
She rolled her eyes. "Sure, Jane. This is the perfect place to store my American Express statements."
"I'm not talking about bills, Lisbon," Jane said, exasperated. "I'm talking about letters. That box is a perfect place to keep treasured keepsakes. You could keep love letters in there."
She snorted. "Yeah, right."
"What, no love letters you've been hoarding away all these years as mementos of lost loves?" he teased.
She scowled and flicked a bit of tissue at him, hitting him on the shoulder so he could feel the effect of her displeasure without causing him to be so distracted that he couldn't stay focused on the road.
He glanced at her. "Cheer up, Lisbon. There's always hope. Maybe some poor bastard will be busy pining away for you in years to come and will send you dozens of letters in a pathetic attempt to express his undying devotion to you."
"Uh-huh," Lisbon said, unimpressed.
Jane shrugged. "Okay, then maybe you'll just get a pen pal."
She glanced at him. "A pen pal?"
"Yes. Surely you had one as a child? Someone from a far off land who tells you about his life, hoping to hear about your life in return."
Lisbon looked down at the box. "I wonder if I could fit my gun in here."
Jane laughed.
Xxx
Jane pulled up to Lisbon's apartment a little after five o clock. "Here you are. Safe and sound," he said with a smile.
"Yeah," Lisbon said, tracing her fingers over the box still in her lap.
"Well?" he said expectantly.
"Well, what?"
"Did I do a good job of making it up to you for the whole Orlov thing? Am I forgiven?"
She looked over at him, her expression unreadable. Then her mouth curved into a slow smile. "You haven't even begun to make it up to me, Patrick Jane."
"But I am forgiven, right?" Jane pressed.
She just shook her head, but she was smiling, so Jane knew that he was. "Thanks for taking me to the museum, Jane," she said. She lifted the box. "And for the souvenir." She hesitated. "I had a good time," she added grudgingly, as though she wasn't sure she ought to reward him with this information.
"It was my pleasure, Teresa," he said quietly, so she would know he meant it.
Her eyes met his. Her mouth parted softly. He experienced a dizzy-making moment where he had the insane feeling that he was on a date that he really, really did not want to end. That blush started to creep up Lisbon's neck again. She looked away hastily.
She fumbled for the door handle, flustered. "See you on Monday," she muttered to the door handle, and hastened to make her escape.
He gave himself a little shake and regained his equilibrium. "See you Monday!" he called after her.
She waved without turning around. She kept her eyes fixed determinedly ahead, the wooden box tucked under her arm.
He waited until he could see she'd made it safely inside, then resisted the temptation to stare at her lit windows for a glimpse of her through the curtains. He pointed the car towards the CBI.
He didn't feel like staying at the hotel tonight.
Xxx
He resisted temptation again when he got to the CBI, bypassing Lisbon's office and the enticing prospect of a couch that smelled like her. He settled on his own couch instead, swinging his feet up so he could lie comfortably while he read about the Dutch masters.
He opened the book to the first chapter. His mind wouldn't settle to the task straight away, however. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a more enjoyable day. The Moro stared down at him from the opposite wall, her smile serene and knowing.
Jane looked at her for a moment, studying her intently. Then he flipped to the back of the book about the Dutch masters and pulled out the pencil sketch he'd tucked away there for safe-keeping. He looked at the sketch, then back at the Moro.
She was beautiful.
But she had nothing on Teresa Lisbon.
[End scene]
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
A/N2: I ended up doing more research for this chapter than I normally ever bother doing for any of my writing. The paintings I reference in the chapter are real and are at the Museum of the Legion of Honor in San Francisco, though their locations within the museum are entirely made up. So if anyone is bored enough and so inclined, you could look up the paintings as a visual reference. And let me know what you think of the selections. :)
A/N3: When I decided to have Jane pick out a souvenir for Lisbon, my head canon is that the box he selected is the box she stores her letters in during 6x09 (see note above about self-indulgent fluff). The box in my story bears no physical resemblance to the box in the episode, but if you feel like joining my fluffy head canon, that was the intent behind the idea.