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The signs are easy to spot: tension lines on her forehead, a slight wincing when she rises from her desk, just a little touch of curling in on herself as she walks across the bull pen to hand Cho a lab report. Not enough so the rest of the team would notice, but noticing is what the state of California pays him to do.
He let's it progress for a few hours, knows she never appreciates when he hovers or draws attention to her weaknesses, but when she comes back from a court briefing with Ardiles and the pain lines around her eyes have deepened, he sighs and swings his legs off the old brown couch.
There's a stock of ibuprofen in the break room, and he pockets the bottle while he's waiting on her coffee to brew. He adds more cream than she likes, but her body will be craving the fat, and she won't complain. On his way back out, he swings by his rarely used desk, snagging two squares of good dark chocolate out of the top drawer. He keeps it there for just such an occasion.
He raps on the door before entering, a rare concession to social convention. He knows by now when to press his luck and when to play it safe.
She's bent over a report, barely glances up at him when he comes in. Her dark hair is pulled into a tight knot at the back of her neck. He knows she fixes it like that to make herself look more imposing, less feminine, but all it does is highlight the pale, slender lines of her neck as they disappear under the collar of her jacket. She's paler still, today.
He deposits her gifts on the desk without a word, and transplants himself to her couch instead of moving back out to the bullpen. There's too much noise out there today, and Lisbon won't engage him in conversation if he doesn't want her to.
She casts a grateful look in his direction when she sees the coffee and has it halfway to her lips when she sees the ibuprofen and the chocolate. Her nose scrunches up in confusion for about two seconds, but she gets there quickly. Then she's glaring in his direction, a light blush pinking up the apples of her cheeks.
"What's this for?"
"You know what it's for," he says, settling back into the couch as he crosses his arms over his chest.
"Jane."
"Lisbon."
She huffs in exasperation, rolling her eyes, but she picks up the bottle and shakes out a few tablets. After chasing them with a generous swig of coffee, she says, "Its kind of creepy, Jane, you knowing that much about me."
"It doesn't take a mentalist to see you've been nursing a headache all day. The rest is just biology, and that's obvious to anyone who has a mind to pay attention."
"But why are you paying attention to....well, that?
"I wasn't, not on purpose." He settles farther back into the couch and his eyes drift shut. He might be due for another catnap, and its quiet in Lisbon's office. "Old habit," he finishes softly, wispy memories of Angela, and the ins and outs of living closely with a woman for years, dissipating before they fully form.
He can tell from the way the silence changes, grows deeper, that his meaning isn't lost on her. A couple of beats, then, "Oh."
"Well, still. It's weird," she says.
A wave of affectionate exasperation rolls over him. Damn stubborn woman.
"Consider it an investment in my continued self preservation."
"Yeah, well, stop it. Some things are private, Jane."
He shrugs. Not from him, but he knows she knows that. "Fair enough." He'll just hide the bottle and the chocolate in her desk next time.
Lisbon's pen resumes it's scribbling and they coexist in the silence. He drifts in and out, sleep never managing to fully pull him under, but comfortable and warm as he cat naps. It's a long time later when her pen clatters in it's cup and he hears her start to clear her desk for the day. On time, even. Good for her.
"Jane, you awake?"
"Mmm," he mumbles, comfortable in that liminal space between waking and sleep.
The air changes around him, cinnamon and a slight push of air pressure, as she invades his space, knees pressing against the side of the couch and brushing his hip. He resists the impulsive temptation to curl a hand around the back of her thigh, and his palm tingles with the wanting of it. Then he's being surrounded in softness and warmth as she drapes the old worn afghan over him.
"Stay here tonight, okay? Don't go back upstairs."
"Mmhmm." It's an easy enough promise to make. He's warm, and he's comfortable, and there's no reason to leave the couch at the moment. The attic is for brooding, and plotting, and thinking, and he's had enough of all three today.
He climbs up out of his drowsiness long enough to open his eyes and ask, "You feeling better?" His voice is raspy and hoarse. He'll need another cup of tea soon.
"Eh," she says noncommittally, the tiniest blush blooming on her cheeks. "Nothing a hot bath and a good night's sleep won't fix. I'll see you tomorrow."
"'Night, Lisbon." He's drifting off again when she gathers up her bag, opening the office door.
"Goodnight, Jane. And thanks," she adds as an afterthought, so softly he only just manages to hear her.
The office door clicks closed, blinds swishing in it's wake, and he's alone again.