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Somewhere behind the haze that is twenty-plus hours awake and a concussion borne of having his head slammed through a plaster wall, Kimball wonders what he's done to piss off Lisbon enough to warrant her ordering Jane to drive him home and take care of him.
He sighs, and keeps trying to find a comfortable way to lie on the couch without accidentally putting pressure on the lower-right back of his head, while trying to resist the urge to get up and investigate exactly what Jane is doing in his kitchen to manage that level of noise. He ends up just raising the volume on the television, letting the sound of morning programming drown out whatever it is Jane's getting up to.
"Ooh, X-Men," Jane says, and Kimball blinks his eyes open to realize he'd almost dozed off.
"...What?" he mumbles, blinking uncomprehendingly at the blurry television screen, and at Jane, sitting crosslegged on the floor in front of the couch.
"X-men," Jane repeats, making a vague gesture towards the television that Kimball is starting to decide is just too far away for him to see properly. "My favorite is Rogue," he adds, off-handedly, and on any other day, Kimball might have read something into that, commented on it, but today he is really tired and really sore.
He settles for a neutral-ish noise.
"Are you hungry?" Jane asks, turning around to look Kimball in the eyes. "I noticed some chicken stock and crackers in your cupboards."
"No, I'm fine," Kimball sighs. "Just tired."
"Tea, then," Jane decides, turning back to the television. "I've already set the water to boil."
Kimball thinks about protesting, because he doesn't really feel like drinking anything warm right now, with his head still a throbbing mess, but decides that he'd rather just close his eyes and relax to the sound of cheesy nineties cartoons and Jane's occasional commentary on comics versus cartoon and character psychology.
He's nearly asleep when Jane reaches over and shakes him. "Doctor's orders. You have a concussion," Jane says, doing his 'hey, I'm innocent here' shrug when Kimball tries to glare in the general direction of his face. "And Lisbon might shoot me if you slip into a coma on my watch."
"I'm not going to slip into a coma," Kimball argues, flat and unmoved. "The concussion is not even that bad."
"How many fingers?" Jane retorts, holding up his hand in front of Kimball's face.
"The grogginess is because I haven't slept for twenty-six hours," Kimball says. "And four."
"Hah. Three," Jane says as he gets up, starting towards the kitchen just as the kettle starts whistling. "Don't fall asleep."
He nearly closes his eyes and tries for a nap, just to spite Jane's smug, victorious smile. But only nearly, and that's only because he knows Enid would slap him upside the head for doing it.
Jane comes back after a couple minutes, carrying two cups of tea and a plate of crackers that he settles on the coffee table before unreservedly helping Kimball into a sitting position. When he seems to be assured that Kimball is comfortable and properly covered by a blanket, he hands over one of the cups, taking the other for himself as he settles down on the couch, not at all respecting any sort of rule of personal space.
They watch the television in silence (well, Jane watches; Kimball mainly just stares into space) for a while, and Kimball is very nearly ready to relax into the couch and spend the rest of the day drinking tea and not really thinking when Jane decides to speak up again. "The tea box was still in its plastic foil," he says, as if that is a normal observation to make, and Kimball sees him turning to look at him at the edge of his vision.
"I don't drink tea that often," he says, still looking in the general direction of the television. "Only when my sister visits."
"Which sister? The doctor? Or the novelist?"
"The artist," Kimball replies, and doesn't wonder too hard on how Jane knows what Enid and Gwen do for a living.
Jane hums, turns away, and is silent for a while. "It's my favorite," he says finally.
And really, Kimball is far too tired and hazy to have this conversation. To talk about why he's paid enough attention to know what tea Jane prefers, or why he went as far as calling Lynn to ask where he might be able to pick it up.
He sighs, drags a hand through his hair as he turns to face Jane. "Look, Jane-" He doesn't get much further than that.
It takes Kimball about eight seconds to realize that Jane is kissing him, and even once he's caught on, it's awkward and funny-angled and he's far too slow to keep up with Jane's clever tongue.
When they pull apart, Jane's smiling, but softer than Kimball is used to. And really, there is a lot of things he could be saying right now, but in the end he settles for "You know, odds are that I won't remember this tomorrow."
Jane just grins a bit wider. "Then I guess we'll have two first kisses?"
And yeah, Kimball can probably deal with that. (Once he's not concussed and dead tired, anyway.)