Coded In Love
Rating: PG
Setting: Between Night Crawler & Do You Take This Spy?
Classification: Romance/Friendship
Summary: Sometimes to protect your cover, you have to use one of the oldest codes of all. Posted in honor of Lee and Amanda's 35th wedding anniversary today!
Disclaimer: Isn't the website's very name a disclaimer? It's called fanfiction dot net, not lost unfilmed scripts dot net!
Spoilers/Episode References: Bad Timing, Do You Take This Spy?, Need To Know, Night Crawler, Santa's Got A Brand New Bag, The Man Who Died Twice, & Unfinished Business.
1She listens to the sound of the other bedroom door closing and the tell-tale creaking of her mother getting into bed and breathes a sigh of relief. With practiced ease, she rolls over and retrieves the small flashlight and paperback from the drawer of the nightstand. She'll use the flashlight for a half hour, until she's sure her mother has fallen asleep, and then she'll switch to the bedside lamp. It's a familiar ritual, one she has followed almost every night over the last three weeks.
She hasn't been able to sleep properly since the kidnapping.
Her mother hasn't noticed the increased trips to and from the library so far, mostly because she sneaks them in on her way to and from work. The few times her car has been used for an assignment, she's stashed the library bag beneath an old sweatshirt in the trunk, so she doesn't think he's noticed the frequent book turnover either. If anyone at work has noticed she's more tired than usual, so far they haven't said anything.
Tonight's historical romance is even better than most, and within seconds she's pulled into the courting rituals of Victorian England. Bedside lamp forgotten, she can't turn the pages fast enough for her eyes to absorb the story of the young couple forbidden to see each other and the secret messages they send back and forth in clandestine flower bouquets. When her eyes finally close from exhaustion, her mind is already dreaming of the phone call she'll make to a friend at the Smithsonian the next day.
He's not exactly sure when he notices something is different. It's not just that there's an extra vase of flowers that's appeared without warning on the filing cabinet. He knows she loves them.
But he doesn't put the pieces together until the afternoon he has to interview a young JAG attorney in his office. Until he goes into the file vault and he hears the attorney ask, "Is someone getting married?"
His head jerks up and his heart starts racing as he tries to think what kind of incriminating evidence has been left out in the open. His brain screams for him to come pu with an alibi, but he doesn't trust his voice to stay steady if he opens his mouth. Finally he manages to get out what he hopes will pass for a chuckle. "What makes you ask that?"
The attorney nods in the direction of the vase sitting on the filing cabinet. "In the Victorian language of flowers, an American Linden means matrimony and an ivy geranium stands for bridal favor."
"Huh." He walks over to join her. "I never knew that, and I honestly couldn't tell you." Which is the truth—he'd never heard that before and he honestly couldn't tell the attorney—or anyone else at this point—about their marriage plans.
To his relief, the attorney simply smiles. "Must have just been a coincidence, then." He returns her smile and quickly redirects her attention to the file she came for. But once he's safely seen her out the door of the Georgetown foyer, it's now his turn to place a call to the Smithsonian.
That night, he takes his usual place in the bushes outside her house, but he makes no attempt to signal her this time. Instead, he simply watches until he can be certain the whole family has moved into the family room, before creeping around the house and ascending the recently repaired trellis. Then, he climbs back down, his mission complete, and moves to the shadows of the shrubs across fro the window to wait.
She has barely turned on the light in her bedroom when she hears the noise. A small tap like a stone striking the pane of the window. She walks over to look, curious, and her eyes scan the yard before coming to rest on a bouquet tied to the trellis and she smiles. She carefully unties the flowers and brings them over to her bed, before reaching for the sheaf of papers she'd collected a few days earlier. One by one, she compares the blossoms to the notes in front of her. A bridal rose. Happy love. White camellias. Perfected loveliness. China rose. Beauty always new. And a purple violet, signifying the giver's thoughts preoccupied with love for recipient. Her smile widens and color flushes across her cheeks.
She doesn't say more than her usual "Good morning" the next day when she walks into the office, just sets the vase of agrimony and ambrosia up on the filing cabinet. By all appearances, he is absorbed in reading through a file, but she doesn't miss the way he gives quick sidelong glances at her actions, or how he sets the file down in favor of a thicker folder once she's seated at her desk. By the time she picks up her pen, he's already running his finger down the list in front of him.
Then he looks over at her. Thankfulness and Returned love.
They exchange smiles.
By unspoken agreement, they never talk about the exchanges, preferring to let the bouquets do their talking for them. But the vases are always there—hers on the filing cabinet and his attached to the trellis and later, after the weather turns colder, set on the floor beneath her window. Gradually, the guides they received from the Smithsonian become worn from repeated handling, but that's okay. By now, they have them memorized, anyway.
As the weeks pass, the messages gradually evolve from simple messages of love to little acknowledgements of things that are happening around them.
2Sometimes, the notes are light and playful, like when they return from that lunch with Charlie at Nedlinger's to find a blown rose placed over two buds. Secrecy. She tries to look innocent, but it doesn't work, and he throws back his head with laughter.
He doesn't waste time in replying though, and she has a hard time keeping her family from hearing her giggles when she sees the honesty and white chrysanthemums below her window.
Honesty and truth.
Other times, the flowers convey sentiments that are more serious.
When he comes up to the office the morning after that conversation in the gazebo, he's almost afraid to look at the vase on the filing cabinet. He's not sure what he'll see, or if he will be able to handle it when he does.
And when he does finally look, the perfection of her choice nearly takes his breath away. Honey flower and Celandine.
Love, sweet and secret, and Joys to come.
He pulls her into a wordless embrace.
She doesn't know how he manages to sneak the flowers up to her room on Christmas morning, because she knows they weren't there when she went to bed, but it's the first thing when she sits up in bed. Fly orchis. Error. An Indian jasmine. I attach myself to you. American starwart. Welcome to a stranger. Corn straw. Agreement. And milk vetch. You're presence softens my pains. Beside it is a second smaller bouquet of red and white roses. Unity.
She just smiles.
She wishes she didn't know quite so much when she steps into the flower shop that morning in February when he's at his meeting in the park. Around her, all she can see are the aloe, cypress, bay leaf, and gum cistus.
Grief. Mourning. I change, but in death. I shall die tomorrow.
She takes a deep breath and strides forcefully up to the counter, determined to order her own bouquet. Black poplar, purple columbine, Hewthorn, and Balm of Gilead.
When he arrives in the door, she makes sure she isn't facing him. She doesn't trust her composure to hold if she's looking at him when he sees the flowers.
But she knows he sees them. She hears his breath still for several seconds and feels him come up behind her, his hands sliding along her forearms and his lips pressing against the back of her hair.
Courage. Resolved to win. Hope. Cure and relief.
And beside them, the arbor vitae. Unchanging friendship. Live for me.
Before they leave for the embassy, he makes sure to set white poppies out on her pillow
You are my antidote.
He's waiting for her outside the washroom with her wedding bouquet. Daisies, red chrysanthemums, and yellow tulips. I share your sentiments, I love, and Hopeless love.
Their eyes meet and she takes his hand.
She's ready to walk with him for all the days of their lives.
The End
A/N: One more interesting note from the Victorian language of flowers. Blackthorn, the last name of the man who killed Lee's parents, is also a flower. It stands for difficulty.
1 MUSIC: The Rose (Nature Soundtrack)
2 MUSIC: The Rose (Andre Rieu)