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It feels wrong to say any case is boring, because somebody died. Even if it was a sexist, dirt-bag lawyer with a list of complaints and victims so long that they have suspects in the triple digits, the guy was still a person. So Wayne tries to pay him some respect and not yawn during the fourth page of his credit card records where he bought individual encyclopedias every hour for three days.
Grace has been missing for conspicuously long. She’s probably hiding in the break room until Wayne gets through all the worst grunt-work. Lisbon’s off in her office, and Cho’s at the table, staring at three different piles of endless physical paperwork. He’s been at it the longest—at least Wayne and Grace got to check out the victim’s favourite library earlier. In Wayne’s peripherals, Cho rolls his shoulders uncomfortably, probably tense as a rock.
Jane notices too, because he asks from the couch, “Sore back?”
Wayne looks up to double check that the comment’s not meant for him. Jane’s staring at Cho, Cho staring back, their eyes locked like they’re the only two people in the office. Cho corrects, “Neck.”
A long sip of his trademark tea, and Jane sets the cup aside. He stands up, tugging his attractive suit into place, even doing up the last two buttons of his jacket. Then he strolls past Wayne’s desk and circles around Cho, stopping right behind his chair.
Jane’s fingers splay along Cho’s shoulders. He spreads outwards, wrinkling Cho’s burgundy tee, then draws back in up to the nape of his neck—Jane’s hands cup together and envelop him, sliding right around to brush under his chin. Cho’s eyes flutter closed, head tilting back. He lets Jane slide back and forth a few times before pulling away to rub tiny circles on either side. Jane kneads Cho’s pale flesh like he’s been a practicing masseuse for years. Wayne wouldn’t be surprised if he really did have training. Cho looks so delightfully relaxed, like he’s willingly slipping into a meditative stake. It’s dangerous to let one’s guard drop that much around Jane, but there might even be a slight smile on the corner of Cho’s lips, so evidently, the pleasure’s worth it.
Wayne watches, mesmerized, as the massage picks up, traveling everywhere, digging in and pulling back and tenderly stroking all the right places. Cho sinks further and further back in his chair, and Jane loops one hand around to splay across his throat again, lifting his chin high. Cho lets himself be guided, and his lips part, a low, subtle moan snaking out of him.
Heat and colour swirl beneath Wayne’s cheeks. He gets the distinct impression that he shouldn’t be staring, but he does anyway—he watches Jane rake through the tail-end of Cho’s dark hair and glide just beneath the collar of his shirt, tickling his pink-flushed skin. It’s not just a professional massage, it’s a wonderful one, powerful and intimate—it feels like Wayne’s peeking into someone’s private life. He’s never seen Cho more vulnerable, and he’s seen Cho at the end of a gun.
Graceful as ever, Jane lowers down. He tilts his head and sticks out his tongue, licking a wet line just behind Cho’s ear. Cho doesn’t seem to have any problem with the attention. But Wayne’s taken so off guard that he somehow manages to choke on his own saliva, interrupting the languid scene with an awkward cough.
Jane glances over, because of course he’d notice, and he flashes a charming grin that makes Wayne twice as red. He chuckles, “No need to get jealous, Rigsby. I can give you one too.”
Another choking fit. Wayne tries to splutter some semblance of an answer, but Cho says over him, “No.”
“No?” Jane repeats, grinning down at his subject. He looks amused by the order. Cho looks the same as ever—he hasn’t bothered to open his eyes or pull away.
He repeats a firm, “No.” Like Jane’s his pesky office imp, and he’s got Jane under lock and key.
Jane laughs, “Sorry, guess I’m taken.” And he kisses the top of Cho’s head, only to resume his work.
Wayne uses every last scrap of will power in his body to look back at the screen. Grace finally returns from the break room with a mug of coffee, and the two of them pretend the case’s grunt-work is anywhere near as interesting as Patrick Jane with Kimball Cho.