Missing scene from 1.11 "The Heist," taking place at some point the day after the bullpen conversation regarding secondary transfer of a blonde hair, in which Jack questions Sue's methods of demonstrating her thought process.
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Jack cleared his throat, but of course Sue didn't look up. He was driving as they headed to check on yet another lead, and could only glance at her out of the corner of his eye, but she was clearly busy looking through Nancy Jeter's file yet again. He reached out and laid a hand on her shoulder to get her attention.
"Hmm? Did you need something, Jack?"
"I was just . . . curious about something, really."
"What's that?"
"It's just . . . uh, it's nothing, really, just . . . yesterday . . . when you were, um, when we were talking about the possibility of secondary transfer . . . ."
"Yeah?"
"It . . . doesn't really matter, I just wondered if, um . . . if there was any reason that you chose to act it out . . . uh, the way you did."
"What do you mean?"
"Well . . . you made Myles the killer . . . when there was no real need to have a killer because that wasn't part of what was acted out at all. And you made us . . . ." He cleared his throat again. "Um, the couple."
She shrugged, her face turning pink. "Did that bother you?"
"Oh, no, no, not at all! I didn't mean—I only . . . wondered." He shrugged. "Forget it, it doesn't—it was just a dumb thing I was curious about, no reason."
She narrowed her eyes and twisted her lips in thought for a moment, considering rather than allowing him to brush his own question off. "For one thing," she said cautiously, "it makes more sense to have someone for each part whether each part is played or not, so that people don't . . . question . . . the motives of having parts to act out at all." She quirked a smile and added. "Well, usually."
"Sorry."
"No need," she quickly assured him. "For another thing, though . . . as long as I'm acting something out—in the name of the case, of course—I'd much rather hug you than Myles."
"Bobby was there," he pointed out.
She shrugged. "He's too tall to hug comfortably."
He sighed, then turned to her and narrowed his eyes. "I know you know the—"
"Eyes on the road, Jack!"
He quickly turned back toward the road. "I know you know the phrase—"
"Now I can't see your lips well. Either pull over or we'll have to finish this conversation later, I think."
He obligingly pulled over to the side of the deserted back road they were on, turning the engine off and the hazards on just in case. Turning to her, he said, "I was saying, I know you know the phrase 'secondary transfer,' you could easily have just said that."
"But then I wouldn't get to hug you," she said, turning pink and her eyes growing wide before the sentence was even complete. She clearly had not meant to say that.
He arched an eyebrow at her. "Are you saying you set the whole thing up as an excuse to touch me?"
"I—I didn't mean—I—"
"You don't need an excuse to touch me." He felt his own face flush. He hadn't meant to say that either, and now her eyebrows were the ones raising in surprise as he stuttered, "I mean—that—"
She narrowed her eyes. "What do you mean?"
Clearing his throat, he thought of the best way he could explain it without directly lying or quite actually telling the truth. "I mean . . . that we're friends. Friends . . . touch each other. You don't need an excuse to . . . say, reach out and touch Lucy's arm excitedly." As he said this, he did so.
She slowly nodded her understanding. "I suppose so. Just like you don't need an excuse to . . . give Bobby a high-five." She held her hand up and he slapped it and they both chuckled.
"Right. And you don't need an excuse to . . . pick a strand of hair off Tara's shoulder," he said, pretending to pick a loose strand off her own shoulder, letting his hand linger slightly longer than necessary—especially when there wasn't really a hair there. He pretended to drop it on the floor in the back seat to maintain the illusion that there had been one, though he didn't know if she bought it.
"Right," she said. "And if you and D both reached for something at the same time, and your hands touched, neither of you would jump back," she said, reaching her hand forward to rest on the center console next to his, just barely overlapping their fingers.
"No," he whispered. Lifting his other hand toward her again he said, "And if you had an eyelash . . . on your cheek . . . it wouldn't be untoward for . . . a friend . . . to brush it away for you." He cupped her cheek, gently brushing his thumb over her cheekbone without even pretending there was really an eyelash there.
"Exactly," she agreed softly. "Just like . . . if your hair were growing out a little long . . . it would be reasonable . . . for a friend to point out . . . a possible need for a haircut." He'd gotten his haircut five days ago. The length of his hair had nothing to do with the fingers now playing at the nape of his neck as their other hands on the center console turned until intertwined.
"And," he said, leaning closer, "you have to read my lips, so . . . if . . . for instance . . . it were getting dark . . . or . . . we were just too . . . close . . . for you to see them . . . ."
"I'd have to feel them," she finished for him.
"Exactly what I thought," he whispered, though he had no idea if she could see the words anymore, or if she only felt a puff of breath before their lips touched.
Their kiss was sweet and slow at first, until they pulled back and looked nervously at one another, reading only desire in each other's eyes. Then they drew together once more into a deeper, more fervent, and much longer kiss, hands beginning to wander and explore one another, all pretense gone. When he finally broke away from her lips, it was to wander across her jaw, then down her neck.
"Jack," she whispered.
He hummed against her neck in response, hoping she could feel it.
"Jack," she said a little louder. He heard the warning in her voice and lifted his head, worried that he had gone too far. She was smirking though. "Don't you think they would find it a little strange if I left to follow a lead without a hickey and returned with one?"
He grinned at her. "I suppose. Maybe we'll have to . . . not need more excuses later."
She grinned back. "Absolutely. But right now, we have work to do, mister."
He clicked off the hazards (thanking God nobody had stopped to find out if they needed help), started the car back up, and they continued on their way
But as soon as his right hand was free to do so, it was back in hers on the center console. With no pretext and no excuses.