-alone, together.
What an oxymoron. Lisbon and Jane drink wine and toast to self-destruction, in four parts.
i. there wouldn't be an evening without a bad idea
She's pissed.
Not pissed as in drunk, unfortunately, but pissed as in inconsolably irate, because it's been one of those goddamn days when the killer gets away and the ladder falls on her foot and Rigsby dumps coffee down her new white blouse and her socks don't even match because she was running late in the morning.
He's angry too.
But he's always angry – it's just a simmering, subtle, quiet and more dangerous anger. His demons run faster than hers.
He knows it's not a good idea but he's living reckless now, so he asks her to dinner. She declines, as expected, and he asks her why. "I'm not in the mood to go out, Jane," she says. "I'm tired and it's been an awful day."
It's the answer he wants.
"My place, then," he offers. She starts to argue – Jane, we're colleagues – and all the other platitudes that she doesn't want to say and he doesn't want to hear because admitting that they probably can't even pass as friends would mean that they are both even more alone than they want to admit. He's persuasive and maybe she's too tired to argue or she wants to be coerced subconsciously –
She agrees.
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ii. wine tastes better with a friend
His place is neat, tidy, simple and it could be anybody's house. There aren't any pictures, any possessions beside essential furniture that show any hint of the person who lives in the home. It's often said that you can tell a lot about a person from looking at their house, but she can't find anything that defines his identity. It scares her.
He asks her what she would like to drink, what she would like to eat. She gives her standard, awkward answer of water and whatever he is having. He smiles like he has correctly predicted her response, which he probably has. She frowns at the old grandfather clock in the corner of his living room, sits with her legs crossed securely on the loveseat. He says he will be right back and he disappears to the kitchen, telling her that she's more than welcome to watch television and entertain herself until he's done preparing dinner. They both know she won't.
A bottle of wine is in his hand when he returns, and at first she is confused. "I don't drink wine, Jane," she protests but he cuts her off and tells her with a charm smile that every one drinks wine sometimes. She sighs but she accepts a glass. He sets the bottle on the table in front of her, directly in her line of vision and tells her that dinner will be ready in less than ten minutes, chef's promise.
He's a good cook, although she realizes a beat later that she shouldn't even be surprised. He's made something fancy, something with a French name – she doesn't even care what it is but it tastes delicious and she tells him so. They eat, mostly in silence. He pours himself a glass of wine and that's when she says quietly, "My mom always wanted to go to France. It was her dream."
The small smile fades from his lips and he is silent, taking a sip of his wine. He doesn't look at her and she angrily chastises herself for bringing it up in the first place. She knows he doesn't care about her emotional baggage, he has enough on his plate and it is stupid of her to think differently. "I always think wine tastes better with company," he says finally, and she is disappointed, but she agrees with him. It grows silent again, because she doesn't know what to say and for once he is being the opposite of chatty.
"My wife's name was Elizabeth." She looks at him again and he smiles ruefully. He takes a sip, she takes a sip. "She loved France. She loved travelling, in general. It made her feel worldly, classy, educated. Cultured and sophisticated. Personally I've never cared for visiting other places to take in all the things that are missing from my life. My wife, she said it was beautiful, to see all the things that you don't normally see. Beauty is only beauty when it's not yours."
"You miss her," she says, and she wonders why she sounds so sad and why her voice breaks mid-sentence. She wonders if he can hear it too.
"I didn't appreciate her when I had her." It doesn't escape her that it's not a true answer. "However, I do appreciate this wine." He changes the subject and she isn't surprised. They can't stick to a subject, they can't stick to anything with any routine or order and god forbid that they actually open up for longer than one simple glass of wine.
It does not take long for them to finish the bottle.
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iii. alone, together
Truth be told, they are both sick and tired of being alone. Neither is exactly sure when a little bit of wine becomes messy laughter and incoherently slurred sentences. They are sharing childhood stories, sharing random thoughts, sharing small little touches that they've never allowed themselves to feel before, not with each other.
Jane's mouth is close to her ear, his face buried in the crook of her neck and he breathes softly, "I wish things weren't how they are," and before she can gather what is happening, his lips fall on hers, moving furiously as if he is trying to diminish the oncoming protests. He is more than a little surprised when she pulls away from him only to start kissing him again, just as determined as he is to not feel alone for just one night.
He slips his wedding ring off his finger, drops it in his pocket. "You're not alone," he tells her firmly, his tone bordering on angry, "I'm not either." Unbuttoning her blouse with quick fingers, he marvels at how it feels to be with a woman again, how it feels to be with this woman. If everything was how it should be, if such a concept existed, Lisbon would have been the one. His last coherent thought before he gives himself to her completely is that he hates the way the world works.
"I know," she says to him, and her last coherent thought before she accepts what he has to offer is that she is lying.
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iv. repercussions
She is only half surprised when she wakes up alone. There is no letter, no voice memo, no post-it lying next to her on the bed and she can't stop herself from getting up and checking his bathroom, his kitchen, his living room. But Jane is nowhere to be seen and so she uses his bathroom to wash her face and get rid of the remnants of last night's eyeliner, and then she gets in her car, not to drive to work but to drive home.
Alone in her own bed, she stares at her ceiling, ignoring the phone she has put on silent and the ache in her heart. Being alone and being lonely are two different things, but being lonelyhurts more than being alone does.
She cries as she laments what she knows she has lost.
author's note:
I know this story was somewhat strange and not very clear, but I tried to make it work with this writing style. I'd love to hear what you think of it, so please review.