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"I'm just going to grab a glass of water," reads like Kalinda-code for "I'd best be going now", so as soon as the bedroom door clicks shut, Lana shifts out of sultry-lover mode and into person-who-has-work-in-the-morning mode, straightening the rearranged sheets, pulling her comfortable pajamas out of the laundry hamper. She washes her face, brushes her teeth, swishes and spits. There's a rhythm to it, a rhythm that she gets jolted out of when she slips back to the bedroom and finds Kalinda, still there, eyeing a stack of books on Lana's dresser. (Nothing but generic fiction, Lana's not stupid enough to leave anything important or interesting lying around with Hungry Eyes coming over.)
"I thought you were going," Lana does her best to phrase it neutrally, like a question, not an accusation.
Kalinda doesn't react, she diverts. "I like your house. It's... well-decorated."
"Thank you."
"Must have been expensive, on a government salary. Those sheets — "
But Lana isn't in the mood to be judged, not at one in the morning on a Tuesday. "Kalinda, what do you want?"
"Nothing." A pause, then she gestures the men's pajamas Lana left spread across the bed. "I like those, too."
"Kalinda — "
"They're... cute," says Kalinda, breathy. Two long steps and she's managed to slink back into Lana's space, reaching out two fingers to tug at the bottom edge of the teddy Lana's still wearing. "But I like this better."
What does it say about her that she doesn't shut it down right there, that she lets Kalinda lean up for a careful, leading kiss, that melts into another kiss, and then waits until the point where she can't tell where one begins and the other ends to say — "Don't you have somewhere to be in the morning?"
Kalinda recoils slowly, disbelievingly, like a snake. "Don't we all?"
Lana bites her lip. That's all the re-invitation Kalinda needs; she's nothing if not a woman who knows how to work an opening. She leans close, but not all the way, her warm breath playing teasingly along Lana's neck. She's more intently tactile this time, one hand sliding up Lana's arm, the other tracing warm fingers along her hip, pushing at the lace edge of her skirt.
Emotionally distant women are Lana's kryptonite, but most of them are icy, rehearsed. But Kalinda — Kalinda is dynamic, honeyed, warm. And all the more dangerous for it. The woman is gifted with the ability to wrap herself around you, soft and familiar before she strikes.
She always strikes.
Lana puts her hands on Kalinda's shoulders, arresting whatever progress she's making with those hands of hers. "Kalinda," she says sternly.
"Right," says Kalinda, taking a step back. "I'll just be going then."
"That's it?"
Kalinda gives her an exaggerated impression of innocence, reaching for the chair where her coat got draped, hours ago. "Seems like that's what you wanted."
"I'm just trying to figure out what's going on here."
"Right."
"You called me," accuses Lana.
"Yeah," says Kalinda. "Guilty, I guess."
"You don't call," says Lana. "You've never called. You show up." (Which is a technique, as far as Lana can figure: everyone who knows Kalinda well enough to have her show up at regular intervals knows she's always angling, and everyone interwoven into Kalinda's life has something they'd rather not tell her. Kalinda works best in person. On the phone, she can be brushed off — Lana even considered it, for a brief second, this time, when her assistant announced the caller — it'd be nice, just once, to be the possessor of power, the one who said "no".)
"Guess I'm getting predictable," says Kalinda.
"Most of the cases on my docket right now are straight-up domestic terrorism," says Lana. "And they're new. Not even close to the point of prosecution. So I've been wracking my brains, trying to figure out which case might point back to Lockhart-Gardner..."
"Did you figure it out?"
"No."
"Some investigator," says Kalinda, tone as neutral and throaty as ever.
"You got me," says Lana lightly. "I'm weak. I need better subordinates. Why don't you — "
"I don't think I'm cut out for government work," says Kalinda.
"Because what I do is so different from what you do?"
"Same work, less pay."
"I haven't told you what I'd pay you."
"Less freedom."
"There's no freedom in investigating," laughs Lana. "Someone's always paying you."
"I'd get off on the wrong foot at the FBI, I think," says Kalinda smoothly. "I hear it's one of those places where they frown upon sleeping with your supervisor."
"We could work around it," Lana says. There's a calculated ardency to her voice, but Kalinda's gaze doesn't soften. "Don't you ever mix work and pleasure?"
"Not anymore." There's a strange finality to that pronouncement, so Lana drops it.
"Okay," says Lana, sidling up to her. "Then tell me what it is you're after. It's been driving me crazy."
"Who says I'm after anything?"
"Kalinda."
Kalinda shrugs on her coat. "It's late. I think... maybe I should get going."
How quickly the tables are turned. "You know, I don't mind if you stay. For the record. It's late, I know it's a long drive. I have a guest room."
Kalinda raises her eyebrows.
"Or... whatever."
"That's okay, I can see myself out," says Kalinda. But she hovers at the bedroom door.
Lana doesn't let her. Instead she follows her to the kitchen, leaning watchfully against island the while Kalinda slides into her boots. When Kalinda stands, Lana leans over to brush a bit of lint off her shoulder. "It's my chair," she says, when Kalinda looks at her strangely. "It's beautiful, but it pills like an old Christmas sweater."
"Right," says Kalinda, reappraising, and strangely almost tender. "I forgot. Last time I saw you, you had a girlfriend."
Lana doubts that Kalinda forgot anything, but, "Yes."
"Something happen?" Lana tries to keep steely, but the quick, melancholy smirk Kalinda throws at her would seem to indicate failure. "Too bad. This is a big place. Must get lonely sometimes."
"I'll live."
"That's the spirit," says Kalinda dryly. "Well, goodbye."
Watching Kalinda's headlights pull slowly out of her icy driveway, Lana feels, strangely, like a war bride in an old black movie, slinking around in satin in the wee small hours of the morning, all unstated "until we meet again"s paved in uncertainty.Isn't that just the way it goes.