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Lizzie isn’t sure if Valentine’s Day is the kind of thing Julian would even celebrate.
She figures it’s a 50/50 shot: either it’s something he wouldn’t even think about, because he’s an actual spy and grown man and that’s the kind of thing teenagers and couples in their honeymoon phase convinced they’re going to last forever do, and it’s a cheesy commercial holiday etc etc etc…
…or, being an utter romantic, he has an entire elaborate thing planned (or, out of attempted respect for her schedule and time, doesn’t has a very flexible set of things planned? Or just some kind of gift?).
Either way, she thinks, it’s unlikely he’s expecting anything from her. And she isn’t really used to doing anything for Valentine’s Day either. It always had seemed like a waste of time.
Even with Charlie—
He’d made it fun. He’d always known how to get her to loosen up a bit, to have fun and be herself. But he’d also made it low pressure. They’d gotten takeout and he’d gotten her a rose to make her smile, and they’d stayed home and watched bad movies and had great sex.
But it hadn’t been a fancy night out. It hadn’t needed to be. It had just been… nice. Lowkey.
Julian likes fancy things, she knows—maybe even prefers them?—but he likes simple things, too. Fine wine and garlic knots.
It wouldn’t be so terrible, if he did try to take her to a nice place he’d gotten a reservation at—for one, it was always something to talk about with Dylan later; he had opinions about fine dining that were always entertaining, and anyway, it wasn’t like it was awful to get dressed up and feel beautiful.
But she isn’t really a fancy person at heart. So she doesn’t know what to think, about possible Valentine’s plans.
The more she thinks about it, though, the more something else begins percolating at the back of her head: she’s worrying about what Julian might plan or not plan (and still unsure of her own feelings, whether she wanted him to plan something) that she’s entirely neglecting the idea that she can plan things.
It was true she isn’t much for Valentine’s. But Julian—he really is a romantic, under all that cool tough guy schtick. He’s affectionate, sweet, really, and even when he missteps, it’s always with good intentions.
She has a feeling, plans or not, that he is one for Valentine’s.
Once that idea takes hold, she can’t let go of it.
In the end, somehow she’s the one making plans for a fancy restaurant. She’d consulted Andy for help—swearing him to secrecy—and selected something she hoped Julian would like.
(She’d almost taken him to somewhere from one of her cases—she’d even considered Cecchino's—but it seemed… complicated. Too close to mixing work and pleasure. And anyway, she hadn’t actually tried their food since their chef had been murdered, so…)
Lizzie tries to hint about it ahead of time, but it’s awkward. She’s at her best when she’s being direct, but it feels wrong to address directly. She’s the one being weird about it, isn’t she?
In the end, she basically just blurts it out the day before, and his eyes go wide for a moment, but then he just—nods. Says, all warm, that he looks forward to what she’s chosen. He doesn’t look upset, though; in fact, a little smile touches on his lips, that fond one he gives her when he thinks she’s being particularly clever or funny or beautiful that makes her stomach do a flip, so. it’s probably good, even though she has a feeling that what he’d been tapping away at on his phone a short while later when he thought she wasn’t looking was probably cancelling reservations of his own.
And it goes—well! It goes well. It’s not exactly her kind of place, but she’s not uncomfortable, and he’s clearly at home, only he, of course, notices that, and tells her, eyes sparkling but lips in a wry little twist of a smile, that they should bail for somewhere more comfortable. They do finish their wine first, and they talk as they make their way there, and it’s… nice. It’s really, really nice, in a way that’s hard to articulate.
It’s easier to let go and forget the idea this is a Valentine’s Day Date and more just a regular date when they’re sitting in a hole-in-the-wall burger place, entirely overdressed—Julian’s got the top few buttons of his shirt undone, sleeves rolled up, and it’s a sight—and it’s easy to forget all the complicated parts of their lives and just talk.
Inevitably, Lizzie does end up talking too much about her work, but Julian seems genuinely interested—and also fills in a few gaps from his perspective on some of the more recent cases—and is, of course, entirely unfazed by any of the gritty details. He doesn’t talk about his work, obviously, but she tries not to let it bother her. It’s not as if she asks, either. Maybe if she dared to, he’d have some (likely censored, but still) stories to tell.
The subject drifts to Dylan—their mutual affection for him is powerful, and also a strong motivation for sharing embarrassing stories—and then to other things. Wine, again. TV shows. Handmade soap, somehow. Wild animals. Julian even tells her, too-light and too-casual to be anything but deliberate, a little about his childhood. Vague, blurry truth, but truth, offered freely.
She laughs when he gets cheese on his nice shirt. He flicks a little at her. They valiantly do not start a food fight.
And then there’s after.
After, they’re back at her place and he’s still looking at her like that, all soft and admiring in a way that’s hard to understand, sometimes—hasn’t he met actual supermodels? Femme fatales, badass spies in Chanel?—when she remembers the other thing she’d gotten, and darted inside to grab it only to groan when she found them disheveled and a bit rumpled.
Still, though, she turns and rather sheepishly produces the flowers, rumpled roses mixed with lilies (locked safely away from Gary, and they’d still managed to come out looking like they’d been stepped on). She tries to give an explanation—it was probably a stupid idea, but she’d wanted—well, she’d just th—
But then she actually catches his expression.
Julian’s eyes are wide, lips parted slightly. He looks—a little stunned. A little flustered? Has she literally ever seen him flustered?
You got me flowers? he asks, very, very softly, and. oh. Oh, Julian. She hadn’t just been on the money: it was a bullseye. She’d accidentally stabbed right into the soft, unguarded romantic in him—or. maybe a less violent metaphor than that. She’d hit on something vulnerable, at least, that was for sure. He looks like he could cry.
She wordlessly holds them out, not sure what her face is doing—crumpling into something fond and maybe sad and hopefully reassuring—and he takes them with careful, steady hands, fingers brushing hers. Holds the flowers for a moment between them, letting the sweet, faint scent wash over them.
He shifts so that he’s holding them in one hand, then reaches out with the other—leans in and kisses her, gentle. He leans in slow enough to give her time to pull away, carefully enough to make sure the flowers are unharmed. She doesn’t, of course; she leans in, too, and the kiss is sweet and warm and his nose brushes hers and when they pull apart, just barely, lips nearly touching, he lets out a shaky little exhale.
Thank you, he tells her quietly, and she gets the feeling it’s not just for the flowers.
The flowers remain in Julian’s new safehouse, on the counter in the kitchen where he can see them every day. When Lizzie spots them the first time, she can’t help but bite back a smile. He notices, but says nothing, only turns to hide his own smile.
And a month later, there are dead lily petals on the counter around the vase, the roses withered. Lizzie hasn’t seen them, hasn't been to his place in weeks, doesn’t know they’re still there.