Sleeping, by Poet on the Run
Patrick Jane was sleeping, as far as the world could tell. He looked so out of place in that comfortable, cushioned bed, rather than resting on the rather uncomfortable couch in the office. The pure, white fabric just didn't blend well with his patent grey suit—which was as often three-piece as not—but the worn brown upholstering of the couch always had, and always would.
Lisbon closed her eyes and tried to convince herself that she was not thinking those kinds of thoughts about her colleague. That she wasn't selfishly wishing that he was back on that lumpy couch instead of resting where he was. That she wasn't lamenting the possibility of never seeing his piercing grey eyes again. For that was all she would admit it was; it was a possibility, not a certainty.
She would not admit to anyone, even and especially herself, that these thoughts were running through her mind. Thoughts like, "Jane is gone," and "What will it be like not to hear his voice?" and, even more potent, "What will I do without him?"
Damn it, why did he have to do this? More than anything, she blamed this whole mess on him. Oh, it wasn't his fault for his current position, but rather hers. Him and his damn ego and charm and intelligence and DAMNED arrogance. He called it confidence, of course. In her worse moods, she called it conceit. But could she really blame him for her own damn emotions? She supposed she could, as she was doing just that.
You see, Lisbon had done a very foolish thing. No, it hadn't been allowing Jane to join the team, or turning a blind eye to the budding romance of Wayne Rigsby and Grace Van Pelt, or even suggesting to Cho that he take up a hobby that might crack his impenetrable mask (baking, if you believe that). No, it was twice as foolish as any of the above, or even ten times as foolish as all of them on top of each other. Lisbon had fallen in love. And, just to add insult to injury, she had fallen in love with the insufferable Patrick Jane.
And she blamed him. After all, if he hadn't pranced into their lives with his charming smile and observant eyes and… well… Suffice it to say, if he hadn't shown up, she wouldn't be here right now, wondering what life would be like without Patrick Jane.
It was really a stupid question. She had lived her whole life before him without him. She had survived for quite a while not even knowing that he existed. But that was the trouble, wasn't it? Now she knew that people like him existed—that chivalry wasn't dead, that some men didn't mind taking the couch for a woman they cared about (even if they didn't love her), that looks and brains and personality could be found in a single being—nothing and no one else would ever be enough. No man would ever live up to Jane's standard. No detective would ever notice things in that way that left her in complete awe of him, however annoyed she tried to act. No… person would ever be able to stand against Jane's silhouette.
And she hated him for that.
But she loved him, too.
Which was also why she hated him.
Damn it. Damn him.
"Looks like he's just taking a nap, huh?"
Lisbon was snapped out of her trance by Cho, who was suddenly next to her with his hands in his trouser pockets, looking as expressionless as ever. He nodded at the figure that lay relaxed on that bed. "I almost envy him. It's been years since I've been able to relax like that."
From the solemn look on the man's face, Lisbon was inclined to believe him. But she tried to concentrate on his words, which provided her a much needed distraction from her thoughts. "You shouldn't joke about things like that, Cho."
"I don't joke," Cho said simply. His eyes rested on her for a moment and if Lisbon thought she saw concern, she didn't have time to make sure, as his eyes moved off her almost immediately after the flash of emotion and back to Patrick Jane. After a long while of silence, he asked, very quietly, "How are you holding up?"
"I'm fine, Cho," Lisbon said. She'd already fended off questions from the others, but she had hoped that the most poker-faced of her team would be above such things. "Perfectly fine."
"Bigsby threatened me bodily if I didn't ask. Sorry."
Under normal circumstances, she might have snorted at the nickname, an uncharacteristic quirk the man had (calling his friends slightly spiteful but generally harmless names behind their backs).
"Not to say that I'm not worried," said Cho. Lisbon rolled her eyes, but he continued, "I just prefer to worry quietly. None of us like this, Liz, but it's obvious that you're taking it the worst. We all know how you feel about each other, and—"
"You mean how I feel about him," Lisbon interrupted. "And it's not like this is the end of the world for any of us, especially him." She nodded at the 'sleeping' Jane. "Even if he—even if… if—" She stopped there, as her throat seemed to have closed up. She began again when the annoying lump went down. "It's not the end of the world, okay?"
But it was, in a way. Cho could tell from the way her voice broke on the last word. She could tell from the way his eyes refused to open, the way he did not stir, the way his hand felt cold in hers and his smile seemed to have disappeared—all evidence to the contrary of the faithfully beeping machine beside her.
"Cho."
Both of them looked up at the sound to see that Rigsby and Grace were at the door. It had been Rigsby to quietly call out, but Grace finished, as seemed to be happening often these days.
"The director wants to talk to you now."
He nodded curtly at them. Before he moved to leave, he removed one hand from its place in his pocket and gently placed it on Lisbon's shoulder, giving her a light squeeze of support. Then, without another word, he left.
And there was silence.
Lisbon realized when Grace and Rigsby stuck around—presumably to check on their colleague's condition—how much she truly appreciated Cho's quiet, solemn nature. He was the perfect sort of person to have around during moments like this.
"God, I hope we catch this guy," Rigsby said at last, staring down at Jane's blank face. Grace nodded in agreement, but her eyes were more on Lisbon than Jane. It was understandable, Lisbon thought. Jane had always seemed a bit too intrusive to the redheaded agent. But the only person they needed to worry about right now was not her.
"Director told us…" Rigsby began awkwardly. "He's considering replacing Jane, if he can't… you know…"
"I have no doubts."
Neither knew what to make of that statement, but they let it go.
And there was silence again.
"I—I think I'll go get us all some coffee. Liz? Rigs?" Grace said at last, looking desperately between her peers.
"No thanks." Lisbon said, never taking her eyes from the limp body on the bed.
"Coffee sounds fantastic," said Rigsby. "In fact, I think I'll come with you. Will you be okay by yourself, Lisbon?"
She nearly growled at the veiled concern, but nodded.
They left.
And there was silence.
But not for long.
Feeling as if she was in a dream, Lisbon carefully reached out with her free hand and lightly touched his face. "Jane?" she whispered.
He did not respond. Not like she expected him to, but…
"God, I'm such a coward."
A painful admission, but the truth. Now how to say the rest?
"I couldn't have chosen a worse time for this, but seeing as I have nothing to lose…" She paused. Not for dramatic effect, as Jane might have done, but rather because she wasn't sure she even wanted to continue. "You probably already know the things that I want to tell you. You have always been way too observant for your own good—and mine! But… I feel like I have to say them. Even if you don't… if you don't feel the same way…"
She stopped and leaned forward until her forehead was resting against the smooth skin of his large hand. She let out a huge breath. Lord, she felt like a foolish teenager.
"I… dammit, Jane—I love you." She bit her lip for a moment, almost as though waiting for a response, but plowed on. "I love you, even though I shouldn't and even though you're a conceited, evil creature of a man. I can't believe it, but it happened. If this is inconvenient, too damn bad. It's just as inconvenient for me as for you. I have wondered every day why I had to fall for the most annoying, insufferable person I have ever met—so you don't get to mope about why such an incredibly bossy and emasculating woman fell for you."
Had she been paying attention to his face, she might have noticed Jane's eyelids fluttering, but she was too busy distracting herself with idle chatter.
"I don't know how it happened, but I blame you. I tend to blame you for a lot of things, actually. I think it probably started the day we met and then everything started to spiral out of control. That's why you frustrate me so much—I'm not in control when I'm around you. I'm certainly not in control now."
His eyes were open now, starting to become alert, and rapidly becoming more so with each word out of Lisbon's mouth.
"God, it makes me hate you." She laughed a little, but there was hardly any humor in her voice. "I love you and it makes me hate you. That's pretty much it. The way I feel in… nine words, I guess. I love you and it makes me hate you."
Lisbon sat up.
She sighed.
Looked at Jane.
Gasped.
"You love me?"
His smile was bright and his eyes were piercing. Lisbon wanted to slap him, but it was all she could do to blink. "How long have you been awake?"
"Long enough to hear you say you love me. Do you?" There was an undeniable amount of happiness in his eyes and his voice, but she knew better than to trust that.
In an attempt to avoid the unavoidable question, she said, "The doctors told us—"
"I don't care what the doctors told you." The smile was hiding now, gone from his mouth but still in his eyes. "I'm more interested in what you just told me. Do you really love me, Lisbon?"
Damn. "Yes."
"Good." Jane said. He settled comfortably into his cushions, almost defying her to remember that he was a horrible patient.
But she was a bit preoccupied to care about that. "Is that all you can say?"
"What else is there to say?" He let his smile out again, in that incredibly arrogant way of his that she loved and hated at the same time.
I love you, too, was something that immediately came to her mind, but she did not dare suggest it. Jane would merely laugh, or give her that half-amused, half-pitying look that she so hated. "I don't know. Just… something more than 'good.'"
"Okay," Jane nodded. He tried to sit up a little, but didn't succeed. His ribs were bruised, after all. "Let's try this: I love you, too."
"You—" She couldn't really finish what she wanted to say. It would have been something along the lines of an accusation of reading minds, which they both knew was ridiculous.
Instead, she just glared at him, let him squeeze her hand, and then got up to go inform the doctor he was awake.
"Lisbon?" She turned to face him, an eyebrow raised in silent question. He simply smiled. "I meant it, you know."
She nodded and smiled her characteristic little smile.
Jane laid back and closed his eyes. To the world, it appeared as though he was sleeping.