Chapter 4 of 5
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Two days before Christmas, Jane found Lisbon working late at the little table in her office, a pile of files spread out before her.
As predicted, she'd forgiven him for his behavior in Whitford's office once he'd solved the case, and things were amicable between them once again. "Hey," she said when he wandered into her office with a cup of tea. "Come help me with this, will you?"
He sat down at the table next to her, cradling his tea as he cast a glance over the files spread out over the table. "What's all this?"
"Cold cases," Lisbon said. She pushed a stack towards him. "Take a look at these. Let me know what you think."
Jane took the files without enthusiasm. "Sure. Just call me Bob Cratchit."
"It's the twenty-third," Lisbon said, unmoved. "Besides, if Bob Cratchit had been anything like you, Ebenezer Scrooge would have been fully justified in keeping him at work on Christmas Eve just to keep him out of trouble."
"Touché, my dear. Very well. Agreeing to participate in this tedious drudgery can be my Christmas present to you."
"Just what I always wanted," Lisbon said with a smile. "Closed cases with no lawsuits."
"Lisbon, I'm appalled and offended. You really think I couldn't come up with a way to provoke someone into filing a lawsuit on a cold case?"
"I'm certain that you could," she said indulgently. "But since this is my Christmas present, you're going to include the 'no lawsuits' bit as part of the package."
"All right," Jane said. "I hope you appreciate the sacrifice I'm making."
"What can I do to convince you of the depth of my appreciation?" she teased.
Looking at her, several ideas sprang to mind. Her hair had been down earlier in the day, but now it was up in a sloppy bun. One of those confounding arrangements women managed so effortlessly in defiance of the laws of gravity. Several tendrils had escaped the confines of the bun, which was troubling enough. But the more immediate danger, even beyond those enticing curls, was Lisbon's exposed neck.
He bet it smelled really good.
He cleared his throat. "So, when are you flying out to see your brothers for the holiday?"
"The twenty-sixth."
"You won't get to see them on Christmas?"
She shrugged. "Drew the short straw. I'm on call."
"Ah, so now you're Bob Cratchit."
"It won't be so bad. It's usually pretty quiet here over the holidays. It'll be relaxing, having a day to hang out at home before dealing with all the family craziness."
Jane knew she was putting a brave face on it. She would have rather spent the holiday with her brothers. But to prevent himself from doing something rash like suggesting that the two of them spend the holiday together, all he said was, "I hope you have a nice visit with your brothers."
"Thanks, Jane."
Lisbon returned to her review of the file before her.
Jane leafed through the first one in his stack and tried not to think about Lisbon's neck. He managed to read a few sentences, then stole another glance at Lisbon.
Lisbon had seven freckles on her neck. Most of them were fairly faint. Not noticeable to the casual observer, but Jane had developed an intimate acquaintance with them over the years. There was a more prominent one that Jane was particularly fond of. He couldn't see if from his current vantage point, but he could have mapped it blindfolded.
He picked up his tea to distract himself and took a sip. He grimaced. Somehow, he'd been expecting the crisp sweetness of sparkling apple cider. The tea was bitter in comparison.
He needed to get it together. He forced his mind to the case report in front of him. William H. Harris, III had died of blunt force trauma fifteen years ago. All he needed to do was focus on William Harris, III and these inconvenient thoughts of Lisbon would have no opportunity to gain a foothold when they continued their attempts to take over his brain.
No one had ever found the murder weapon. He turned the page. Oh. William H. Harris, III had obviously been killed with the 4-iron from his own set of golf clubs. Apparently the police had never realized that the killer had taken it and returned it the golf bag slightly cleaner than all the others.
Losing interest in William H. Harris, III, Jane's eyes wandered back to Lisbon.
She'd made far better progress than him. She'd filled three-quarters of a page on a legal pad with meticulous notes and was tapping her pen against her lips the way she did when she was onto something. God, he loved watching her work. All that intensity and single-minded concentration—it was captivating.
His eyes landed on her neck again. Bent forward so studiously over her files. It would be so easy to lean in and take a long draw from the well of Lisbon's essential scent. Remembering the experience of mainlining her hair, he couldn't help thinking that a direct hit from her exposed neck would be even more potent.
Perhaps it was this thought that ultimately undid him. Because when Lisbon shifted in her chair, a waft of cinnamon floated towards him, and breathing it in, Jane lost his head entirely.
Before he knew what he was doing, he'd scooted his chair forward, leaned in, and pressed a reverent kiss to the portion of Lisbon's neck he'd been most recently admiring.
One thing was for sure. He'd definitely been right about the potency of the neck.
He didn't have time to appreciate it, though, because Lisbon jerked away and stared at him, wide-eyed. "What the hell was that?"
Sheep dip. "Uh," Jane said, just as wide-eyed. "Sorry. That was an accident."
Her eyes narrowed. "An accident."
Jane cursed himself. Of all the idiotic things to do. He didn't lose control like that. Not ever. He couldn't afford to. "Yes." Then, sensing more explanation was required if he didn't want Lisbon to turn him into dust with the red hot laser beams she was currently shooting at him out of her eyes, he added, "It was the mistletoe. It messed with my head."
Lisbon leaned back and folded her arms across her chest, still shooting lasers. "There's no mistletoe here."
Jane fidgeted. "The mistletoe from before."
A look he couldn't read crossed Lisbon's face. "You mean the mistletoe from the party? When we…" She gestured between the two of them.
"Yes."
Comprehension dawned. "Is that what that whole touchy feely bit was about the other day in Whitford's office?"
He avoided her gaze. "Maybe a little."
Lisbon tried to keep her voice cool. "Did you ever think about, you know, actually talking to me about it?"
Jane shrugged helplessly. "What was the point? Nothing can ever come of it."
Lisbon sucked in a breath like she'd just taken a bullet to a Kevlar vest. "Because you don't think of me like that."
This seemed a strange statement to Jane. Obviously he did think of her like that, or he wouldn't be in this mess in the first place. "Because it isn't safe."
The laser beams were reaching nuclear proportions. "I see," she said, her tone clipped. "And that's your final word on the matter, is it?"
"Don't be upset. If it hadn't been for Rigsby and that damn slingshot—"
She cut him off. "I get the idea." She snapped her file closed and stood abruptly. "On second thought, I think I'll work on this from home."
"Teresa—"
She held up a hand to forestall him. "Don't." She crossed to her desk and yanked her bag out of the drawer, stuffing the files in it on her way to the door. "Good night, Jane. Thanks for helping with the files." She paused in the doorway and added grudgingly, "Merry Christmas."
"Merry Christmas," Jane echoed.
She left, taking all the warmth and light from the room with her.
xxx
A/N: I shamelessly stole Jane's definition of "accident" from jengwilson's "The Big Apple." If you're a West Wing fan, I highly recommend you check out her stories, they are fantastic.