Awakening- Tag for 5.02 "Devil's Cherry"
The pictures had long receded when her touch woke him, warm and insistent on his dry skin.
Her hands framed his face, he could feel her thumbs close to his lips and pursed them slightly, following the urge to kiss her, anywhere. He stopped himself immediately, the foggy haze draining from his brain fast now, leaving the painful bout of loneliness and dread.
He shivered. His whole mouth felt as if he'd chewed on cotton all night. He tried to open his eyes, but his lids only fluttered shortly, so he wasn't there yet. He groaned but didn't hear any sound emerging.
When her hands slid from his skin, about to leave him, he forced himself to say her name. If she didn't get a life sign from him she would call an ambulance in seconds, and he couldn't have that.
"Lisbon."
His voice sounded hoarse and slurred, every word hurt on his sore throat, but he finally managed to wrench his eyes open, the soft light enough to burn his retinas.
His gaze focused on her face, pale with worry, and shame washed over him like a fever.
He saw her lips move, try to find the right words, and he was prepared for the flood of reprimands, the stern Lisbon-voice, when he saw her giving up all of a sudden, resignation settling on her beautiful features.
"We have to get you back to the hospital. You look like hell, Jane."
Her voice so soft and calm, like a caress all over his aching body.
The punch of nausea deep in his guts reminded him that his stomach hadn't been pumped this time, he had digested the full dose of the poison and felt considerably worse.
"No," he croaked nonetheless, "it's over, I'm through the worst already, there's nothing they could do. I survived, huh?"
She let her hands fall from his face, and he felt bereft. She seldom touched him, and part of him had always been relieved. He couldn't deepen their relationship right now, not with Lorelei in the background, the fight with the FBI, Red John so close he could almost taste him. He couldn't risk that for anything, not even for her.
But the other part had always wanted her to get closer, to demand that he looked at her while they talked, that he gave her his full attention, not his usual, distracted, masked self. He knew she saw beneath all that. There was no one who knew who he was but her, and that made her precious beyond words, a witness of things he had buried so deep no one would ever be able to dig them up. No one- but her.
But his senses were always focused elsewhere. Lorelei, Red John, the FBI, Charlotte. And part of him wished Lisbon would demand his attention. Force him to circle around her, just once.
She pressed a bottle against his lips and he greedily gulped down the cool water, the smooth liquid soothing the burning pain in his throat, granting blissful relief. He finished the whole bottle, down to the last drop.
She straightened slowly, and in the half-darkness, while his senses slowly regained the upper hand over the dreams which had just left him, he was once again floored by her beauty. He had never seen it as clearly as he did now, and it made his mouth even drier, forcing him to swallow several times.
He sat up slowly, one inch at a time, the world gradually righting itself all around him.
She looked at him out of narrowed eyes, and he knew a speech was about to come. He braced himself.
When she sat down next to him and took his hand, wordlessly, he was surprised. Silence covered them like a blanket, but it wasn't uncomfortable. As if she held his heart in her hand, and he felt safe enough with her to relax. Her fingers were tiny, but strong, wrapping around him like strings, tying him to her. He interlaced them with his, tightening the grip.
She smiled sadly.
"I bet you have never thought about what would happen to me if you died."
He halted. It was true, he hadn't. Had always wanted to believe it wouldn't mean all that much. But when he looked at her face now he saw a pain that resembled his own far too much. He understood that this was her true burden. Not to keep her job while she dealt with him. Not being his sidekick when he did whatever he wanted, not keeping him in line, making him "behave". The worst was the constant fear that one day, she might not be fast enough, might not be able to protect, to save him.
For of course she knew he would be ready to sacrifice her life along with his for catching Red John. Or even for seeing the hallucination of his daughter again through a potentially lethal drug.
What would have happened if she had found him dead?
The feeling build inside him like a sudden spell of empathy, as if he really could feel what she would have felt. No- he could feel it. A red smiley face on the wall. Blood everywhere, what he loved most in the world, gone, reduced to a pile of flesh. His precious, fragile butterflies, his love, his life, his future. Crushed.
He knew what Lisbon would have felt.
Tears sprang to his eyes, broke free, dripping down his chin.
She couldn't. She couldn't go on loving him like this, nobody could love him like this. He was the kiss of death. Why her? Why couldn't someone bad fall for him, someone already tainted, spoiled. Why did he have to burn the most precious being in his life, all over again? Another butterfly, its delicate, translucent wings catching the light.
Her grip on his hand tightened one last time before she released him and got up.
She looked at him. A goddess in a leather jacket. Her eyes soulful, woebegone, resolved. Her lips searching for words that wouldn't come, he could almost see her dismissing every single one as futile, stupid, naïve.
So she just nodded at him, pressing her lips into a thin line.
"You know where to find me if you need anything."
She turned. He saw it in slow-motion, one inch at a time, and suddenly he knew: if she went out the door now, he would die. There would be nothing left of him to throw to the dogs. His human core would vanish, only the beast would remain.
He didn't have a life, Charlotte had told him. But he couldn't have one, that couldn't be changed.
And still Lisbon was turning, away from him, disappointed and hurt. His fierce, sparkling butterfly.
The loneliness felt like the cut of a knife, like withdrawal. The dream had been good, but the truth seemed so much colder now.
He sobbed, just a short welling of sound.
But it stopped Lisbon dead in her tracks.
Need flooded him like a giant wave, violent, suffocating, merciless. His heart cracked its stony armor, he imagined a flood of blood coloring his pale skin red again, the tiny hairs on his neck stood on end.
If she didn't touch him now, everything would stop, cease into nothingness.
"Wait." He whispered, and she did.
She faced him slowly. God, she was beautiful. His voice was so rough he could hardly understand his own words, but he knew she would get them.
"I love you, Teresa."
At first, he saw a spark of denial in her eyes, huge and green like the impenetrable roof of the rain forest.
No, the spark said, you don't. But then he saw the realization dawn on her, her clear gaze reading him like a book. And for once, it felt good. Good to hide nothing, to be open and vulnerable, raise his face for her to take all his secrets, every vicious lie, every stunt he had pulled. Every feeling he had buried deep enough to be invisible forever.
I love you, Teresa.
And just like that, he knew that he wouldn't sacrifice her. That his love had just made his own life that much more precious, had multiplied his worth by a factor that seemed infinite.
I love you, Teresa.
The thought repeated itself inside the caverns of his body, and suddenly it didn't hurt at all, was nothing but a soft hum that warmed him from inside.
She came closer, and every step, careful and measured, raised his anticipation, his sheer want, until he could hardly breathe with it, every gulp of air a fiery burst in his lungs, too addictive to miss.
When she stood directly in front of him, she let her jacket slide from her shoulders, the leather causing a dull sound when it hit the floor.
He saw the strong doubts on her face and smiled, a little challenging, although his heart threatened to burst out of his ribcage, hammering so viciously he could feel it.
The decision lured somewhere in her features, and he got hard, wanting her so much it hurt. He couldn't settle for innocent and comforting now, there was no way he would be content with a hug. His gaze implored her.
She drew a shuddering breath and kicked off her shoes before she opened her pants and let them slide to the floor. He grinned despite himself, despite the nameless arousal coursing through his body.
His practical Lisbon. Getting the biggest obstacle out of the way beforehand.
When she straddled his thighs, every thought in his mind stopped, and that seldom happened.
Her legs were cool, and when he let his fingertips glide over her soft skin, he felt her strong muscles contract beneath his touch.
He raised his face, begging for a kiss, and she relented, filling the emptiness inside him with the heated glow of her lips. She tasted more wonderful than anything he could remember, fresh and pure and sweet, his hands tightened on her bare thighs, pulling her up until her stomach rested against his. How small she was when they were so close, her body so delicate he would have been afraid to touch her roughly hadn't he felt her strength beneath the silky smoothness, the controlled power of a fierce tigress.
He pushed her against him, hard, and her answering growl showed her pleasure.
But it was her kiss that made him drown, her sweet lips bathing his skin, gliding over his cheeks, his nose, his forehead until he giggled like a happy little boy, relieved from any burden for some precious moments of pleasure.
He sighed and gave in to everything she wanted to do to him, allowing the crashing waves of bliss to submerge him.
Xxxxxxxxxx
His skin was still unnaturally dry, bearing the unmistakable effects of the drug. Only that it was far more than a drug, it was poison, a toxic substance that could easily kill him when he took it in the solitude of the attic.
Fear ran through her like an electrical current, raising her pulse until she could feel it hammering in her veins.
The thought of him dying, alone, everything over in just a heartbeat, made her nauseous.
But she swallowed the reprimands, ignored the urge to tell him off like a stern teacher, because part of her could understand him. What wouldn't she do to be close to him again if she lost him? There was nothing, she would do anything, wouldn't fear the darkness for this one moment of relief.
Teresa Lisbon had spent her life trying to avoid close attachments, and had never failed until she'd met Patrick Jane. Losing her mother had almost destroyed her- losing him would finish her off, and she had never felt it as clearly and mercilessly as she did now.
Lately, it seemed as if death had chosen to become her companion, showing her constantly how easily Jane could vanish from her life, taking her soul with him.
She would have died for him without batting an eye. Would stand before him when the chips came down, his shield, his protection, fighting to her last breath to keep him safe. Knowing all the time that it still might not be enough.
For she knew that she could do nothing to stop him. He would do whatever he wanted, it was just the way it had always been, and Lisbon had never known pain and love like this, entwined in a lethal embrace she would never be able to untangle.
So she took the whole package, almost like the sweet poison he had consumed to see his family again.
She showered his face with kisses, felt his cock harden against her stomach. No, she hadn't planned on this, but now she couldn't stop, her whole body was reaching for him, every cell tuned to his movements. A shudder ran over her skin when he grabbed her waist, his hands surprisingly strong, firm, pressing her closer, rubbing her flesh against the hard ridge of his arousal.
He caught her lips with his, playful, urgent, pushing his tongue into her mouth like a ruthless conqueror, filling her senses with his heady taste.
Don't die, don't die, don't die, her mind screamed with every beat of her heart while his hands roamed her body, restless wanderers intent on finding their goal. She gasped in shock when he ripped her panties from her body, the sound of rending fabric piercing the nightly silence.
More kisses to hush her, his tongue playing with hers, sliding against it, more sweetness, more warmth, a flush she could feel right down to her toes. Jane grabbed her thighs and spread them wider, she felt exposed, bare, his fingers gliding down between her legs, she was wet for him, so, so wet.
She looked at him, his eyes clouded with ecstasy, his hair tousled, she drove her fingers through it, the curls as soft as silk against her skin.
She grabbed the hem of her shirt and pulled it over her head, opened the bra and tossed it on the floor, almost surprised that she didn't feel the least bit embarrassed. She saw his eyes going wide, his pupils dilating until the blackness infiltrated everything, and it felt good. He pushed a strong finger inside her and she groaned, arching her back in delight.
Her hands trembled when she unbuttoned his vest and shirt, spreading the lapels to expose his chest, smooth and golden in the dim light. She raked her fingernails over his skin, making the muscles twitch, before she traced the slim line of blond hair on his stomach, leading to his groin.
She could see the outlines of his murderous reaction, and her arousal almost drove her insane. His belt buckle clicked when she opened it, pulled the zipper down, pushed at the fabric until his length was free. He was hard, incredibly hard, but when she wrapped her hand around him, unable to span his girth, he stopped her immediately, prying her fingers loose, making her groan with frustration.
He grabbed her waist and lifted her from his lap, lying her down next to him, flat on her back, the sheets cool against her fevered skin. He got up and got the remaining clothes out of the way, his eyes glued to hers as if he were unable to look away, his hands struggling with shoes, socks, pants, underwear.
He wasn't ashamed for his nakedness, let her look her fill before he covered her body with his.
"I'm not hallucinating now, am I?" he asked, whispered words, anxious.
"No." She breathed. "I'm real."
He delved in for another kiss, his lips hard and demanding, his tongue hungry and wild, invading, sucking. He tasted so good she moaned deep in her chest, the sound rumbling all through her system, the purr of a cat.
His hips spread her legs, the tip of his erection resting at her sensitive entrance, her harsh breath fluttered on her tongue.
"Jane," she gasped in desperation, "promise me you'll never again…"
But he just smiled at her and pushed inside her in one deep, hard thrust, filling her like a torturing menace, so completely she could feel the force everywhere.
Her mind shut down, her world reduced to his body, bare, heavy, hard, impaling her until not even a thought fit inside her. She arched her hips against his, whispering his name like a plea, a benediction.
"Patrick."
He shivered in her arms before he pushed his body up to gain momentum, pulling back slightly only to slam inside again, her body soft, willing, receiving him, his pulsing erection ruthlessly pushing into her tightness.
Her flesh resisted him and she wanted him to be merciless, forceful, conquer her like a warrior. His rhythm was harsh, too fast for her to catch her breath, she felt every sensation enhanced, almost unbearably acute.
She scratched his skin in her violent need to get closer, he jerked with arousal, his eyes wild and delirious, his lips trembling.
She felt her back rub against the sheets every time he drove into her to the hilt, the sounds of wet flesh slapping against each other loud in the dusty silence and she groaned, groaned until she was almost screaming with ecstasy, his harsh thrusts causing so much friction between them it blew her mind.
She felt the first contractions of orgasm, lingering to strike like lightning, when suddenly he pulled out, completely, leaving her cold and lost, struggling for orientation. She whimpered with frustration, but Jane grabbed her waist and turned her onto her stomach, and before she even had the chance to fully move onto all fours he pushed back inside, all the way, until her mouth fell open from the sheer sensation, and she came immediately.
Jane was pounding into her all through her contractions, taking her hard until her stomach muscles hurt from coming so much, he was panting into her ear, his grip urgent on her hips, she could feel the bruises forming, almost begged for more.
He pulled her close until her back was flush against his chest, his hands roaming her abdomen, kneading her breasts before they settled between her legs, prolonging her orgasm into something monstrous, scary, something that seemed too big to survive with her sanity intact.
His strokes were almost brutal, again, again, so deep he seemed to pierce her heart, his enormous girth even growing inside of her. He grabbed her chin, turning her head to claim her lips in a passionate kiss. The taste of his tongue alone made her convulse again, so much heat, lust, he plundered her mouth until she shook all over.
His thrusting became frantic, than erratic, and when he exploded inside of her he screamed his relief into her mouth.
She felt his whole body going rigid and taut behind her, the spread of wetness between her legs when his seed overflowed from her tight sheath, running down her thighs in hot, tickling little rivulets. He spent for a long time, spurt after spurt of warm, balmy liquid, filling her with his essence while he shuddered behind her, his hands holding her close.
He seemed completely exhausted when he had finished, and she stretched out on the thin mattress, pulling him into her arms until his head rested on her chest. She could feel the soft flow of his breath on her skin, warming what was already too hot, and desperation rose inside of her like a wave. He couldn't die, couldn't leave her.
Images appeared like mist. What if she hadn't found him alive, but cold and pale in death, his light extinguished, all her hope gone with him?
"Jane, promise that you won't drink that tea ever…"
"Shhhh," he interrupted, "sleep, love. Don't think now, just sleep."
She almost sobbed with exasperation, the utter helplessness she often felt with him. He wouldn't listen. Wouldn't change. But he was the man she loved, and nothing would ever be more meaningful than that.
She couldn't sleep, fear eating at her soul, until he pushed up and looked into her eyes, mumbling soothing words of a peace that seemed so far away, and she couldn't fight it, couldn't struggle, and the tide pulled her under into a blissful slumber as quiet as a grave.
Xxxxxxxxxx
Jane woke up in the early morning hours, feeling fine except for a slight headache. Lisbon's slim, warm body was spread out over his chest, and when her thigh rubbed over his groin, he instantly felt himself getting hard again.
He gently extricated himself from her, careful not to wake her.
He then squatted down next to his makeshift bed and spent almost half an hour watching her sleep, her features so peaceful, hypnotically perfect. He leaned closer, letting the sweet flood of her breath wash over his face.
He'd never seen her asleep, the sight alone was worth every battle. Her lips were plump and pouty, she had tucked her little fist under her chin. Everything about her was pure and delicate, as perfect as a sculpture made of marzipan. Her hair framed her face like a dark cloud. He wanted her again, urgently, but he should let her sleep for a little while longer. She deserved it.
He got up and strolled through the room, naked, and eventually filled the little heater he kept for his tea with water.
He prepared himself a cup of tea, Earl Grey with just a hint of lemon, the familiar taste soothing his frayed nerves.
He touched the little brown paper bag which contained the belladonna leaves, still standing on his table like a quiet warning.
He remembered his daughter, the beautiful image his mind had painted for him. Just a few hours of being normal again, his heart beating with renewed vigor, warm, bloody, alive.
The love had been strong. Real.
It had been more than the cold, painful memories, had been comforting and substantial. Just once.
I deal with it every day- maybe that is the problem.
It felt like letting Charlotte die all over again. But she had told him. She was dead. Nothing could change that.
They were gone. Lisbon wasn't .
He had to decide. The living, loving, breathing woman in his bed or a figment of his imagination that could never be anything but a dream.
He opened one of the dirtied windows, the air crisp and cool, rousing his skin into goose bumps.
"Goodbye." He whispered, his heart bleeding, longing for Lisbon's embrace.
But before he returned to the warmth of the woman he loved, he opened the little brown bag, held it out of the window and sent the dry belladonna leaves floating into the cold Sacramento morning.
The End
Wishful thinking- yeah. But, at least a little bit, that's what these tags are about, isn't it? Tell me what you think, please!