Candlelight Vigil

1

A/N: An episode tag for Little Red Corvette…

There's something to be said about the quiet of the night.

She knows now it's this emptiness and nothingness he craves. After today she no longer wonders why. Can completely understand his inability to sleep the night through, will never judge his catnaps again. It's self destructive to enjoy the silence so fiercely, can understand how simply it could become an addiction. The lack of distraction forcing all perception inward, the ability to dissect ones actions is much simpler without having to dodge loaded glances.

Especially those weighted down with opinion and pity.

The church is blissfully empty, her own personal sanctuary. The scents of candle wax and lemon oil aren't nearly enough to soothe her aching soul but the memories they trigger help to smooth the fraying edges of her own self worth. The pews are glossy and golden in the flickering glow of too many candles. Each tiny fire, casting its light toward heaven, an offering, a symbol, a declaration and belief in the presence and the power of God. A sea of devotion whose sum can only be seen as so much greater than any one of its parts.

And yet in this moment, all she can see is the shadow they cast.

The flames dip low, almost vanish for an instant before raising back up vigorously, dragging her eyes from the rosary dripping causally between her fingers. She can't remember the last time the prayers wouldn't come. Doesn't know how she's come so far to only reach this point. There's an ache at the crescent of her lower back and along the arch of her knees. The Apostle's Creed is poised at the apex of her throat, lips forming words that turn to ash on her tongue.

She can't help but wonder if there's a message in all that she's lacking.

Justice requires actions and actions call for consequences. But she refuses to repent an unjust act that brought a monster to his knees. She can't help but wonder if this would be so hard if she had a reputation to help hold her up, some clout, an olive branch, but she knows she's already given them up.

Given them all up so he didn't have to give in.

The votives dance again and she knows he's here. The doors open seamlessly, the shift in the light the only tell of his arrival.

She wonders if he's come of his own accord or if her constant inner pleas for his presence have finally reached him. She doesn't wonder how he found her, only why he choose tonight of all nights to actually seek her out. She can't wrap her mind around what she feels for him, can't be sure if she knows any more, doesn't know if it could matter any less in this moment.

XxX

"No need to lurk in the doorway Jane, I know you're there." Her voice startles him slightly. The hushed tone and volume are to be expected in a place of worship, but beneath her respect her diction is both heavy and empty.

So filled to brim with absolutely nothing.

He makes no move to advance, can't seem to find his balance in this place that is completely hers. He's unsure of his choice to follow her. Doesn't know how well received he will be after their last encounter in such a similar setting. He turns and watches the votives dance in the wake of his movements, wonders which ones she's lit, wonders if they're all hers.

Wonders how many matches she's watched catch while she casts his name towards the sky. There's something humbling in the knowledge that someone has asked forgiveness in his name. That someone holds him high enough to believe he deserves what he knows he does not.

They've been treading water lately, for some time now, he's known something's coming, something new and not yet all together defined. He can sense it pushing him to feel more, give more, want more. All of it for her. He can't say he's fond of the way it wakes his conscience, drags it up, like a wall around his actions, forcing him to think twice.

Forcing him to consider outcomes other than the ones that end in only his favor.

He knows she doesn't want him here, knows better than she does how she feels and what she can't undo. He can't explain it, wishes he could, he's had years to let it develop within him, create a part of him he can't wait to once again live without. There are no words, even for him, to help lessen the hold. All he knows is that she's there for him when he doesn't know how to be there for himself, and he's pretty sure gestures of equal measures speak loader than any words could for her.

This is why he's here.

She's important to him. Knows they're important to each other. Wonders how much longer he can expect her to wait for him, wonders how much longer he can wait on himself. And he can't help but wish for days trimmed in colors other than red.

XxX

The silence stretches, so thin and frail, each breath, every shift echoing within the stillness. She waits and holds the next few moments tight within her lungs, straining for the slightest sign of him, ignores the pressure rising within her chest. The demand for air going unheeded as his gentle footfalls continue, become the very center of her attention.

His movements do not bring him closer and she wonders what he's about, refuses to turn and see for herself. The catch of a match strikes the tension from the air and her lungs fill too quickly, her love for him drenching every crack in her soul, flooding the empty, aching, chambers of her heart. She knows he does not believe in their purpose. Knows he sees only the wax and the wick, so the ache that parallels the significance in the gesture would bring her to her knees if she wasn't already there. She understands it's the only way he knows how to warrant his intentions. Wishes she could find a way to show him how she feels. She's never given him cause to be cautious with her mind. She's always the pillar of strength and clarity, the clear voice that calls when there's a need to refocus, to once again become grounded.

She thinks it's ironic how well they think they know each other, how well they think they know themselves. When all it takes is a shift of perspective, a trading of rose tinted glasses, to throw all of what they think they know out the stained glass windows.

She knows what he's feeling, even if he does not. Knows the uncertainty settling within him cannot be resolved until he sees her eyes, can gauge her metal state, her lack of sleep, the inner turmoil she can't seem to keep from painted all the planes of her face. It's the emotions that invade her every cell every time she climbs those dusty attic stairs.

XxX

As the soles of his shoes resolve the distance between them he wonders if this is how she's felt every time she's forced to seek him out in the shadowy eaves of his sanctuary. Can't imagine how often she's convinced herself to stay with him and then managed to make herself walk away. He knows he couldn't walk away now if he tried. He realizes she's stronger than anyone has ever really given her credit for, himself included.

She does not rise from her knees at his approach, won't spare him a glance or a gesture in his direction. He watches as her slender fingers run gently along the decades before her, never leaving pause enough for prayer or repose. Her hair falls like a shield between them and he can't be sure if she's lost in thought or simply prolonging the inevitable. He's almost certain there are no prayers, and the knowledge is begging his conscience forward again. Forces him to consider how wrong his decision to seek her out after finding her office suspiciously empty may be. He knows she comes here in times of emotional turmoil. Has found her here, in a similar state once before. He finds himself wanting nothing to do with those memories. Instead he finds his thoughts wondering, again, how often her rosary feels the call for his soul, there's little else in her life that causes her as much grief he can.

The choices he made the last time they shared this space flits across his memory as he comes to stand alongside her chosen pew. Doesn't want to remember all he put her through, before and after that night. Doesn't want to meet her eyes and see the memories, see the cause and effect his carelessness left behind. He doesn't want to remember how hollow they both were that night, only wants to focus on how far they've come. Wants to chase away the memories of his selfishness and replace them with something she'll remember without the need to flinch and curse his name.

He was afraid for some time his requests and demands may have hindered her regard for this very space. Knows where the simple scents of lemon oil and candle wax send his own mind. Send him back to her office, can almost feel the weight of her death in his pocket. Even now he can all but see the dawning of acceptance break across her face as he threw a confession at her feet with little finesse and less grace. All the while she stood before him, eyes open and trusting. Her small body braced for the war he would bring about with his own careless hands and a few random bullets.

And in his selfishness and fear he let his declaration of love fall to the ground, to be policed and sealed away with the brass left in the wake of his madness.

"What are you doing here, Jane?"

"I don't want this for you." He finds the irony in this statement after it's left his mouth. Wishes he could take it back. Doesn't even know what 'this' is. Can claim to be a little more than afraid it's not the 'this' she takes it for. Can't seem to comment around the metallic taste it's left behind, around the lump in his throat lodged there by whatever it is that's coming their way.

XxX

She watches him then from behind the curtain of her hair, eyes never venturing higher than his shoulders, as he claims a seat directly beside her. He sits, eyes drinking all of her in as she returns to her rosary. He leans forward then, throws his arms over the pew in front of them, his elbow coming to settle inches away before brushing the line of her forearm, knees hovering but never connecting with the kneeler alongside her.

Experience should make him wise, and yet he's void of all things appropriate to lessen the weight of her inner war. The demons she faces are familiar in form, he's been subject to them and all they can dredge up for far longer than she's even known they existed. He can't help but blame himself for her ever seeing them. He encouraged her, helped her along, all because it was what she asked of him.

She lifts off her knees then, a sigh leaving her lips as she settles back and lifts the kneeler in a seamless, practiced gesture, with just the tip of her toe. Repeats the question he refuses to answer. "Jane, what are you doing here?"

"You know, was in the neighborhood and all that." He pushes back until his posture mimics hers, their shoulders now set solidly against each other. The look she turns on him is incredulous, eyes searching his face before meeting his for the first time all night.

Her voice was empty and her eyes are hollow.

He can't look away, doesn't know how he'll leave her side if he can't find a way to fill her back up. But she smiles than, her pale lips turning up at the corners before she turns her eyes away again.

"All nighters were never really your thing, especially after the week you've had." She slips her rosary into the pocket of her blazer, the movement shifting her even closer to him, her hair nearly brushing his cheek.

"I was getting ready to leave when you showed up"

Liar.

"Inner wars are hard to win, especially if you don't fight fair." She laughs then, a single humorless bark that rings within the silence. The sound warms him from the inside out. Burns like a shot of bourbon through his chest. He refuses to acknowledge the fact that she's let the sound ring with sarcasm. He thinks he's just glad she's filled it with anything.

"You, above everyone else, should know how fair I fight. And you only think you know about my inner wars." It's not the first statement she's made like that over the last few weeks. He wonders which one of them she's trying to convince. Has to stop and consider her need to call attention to his knowledge of everything that makes her who she is.

"I know I've caused enough of them over the years to recognize their tells." She shifts slightly beside him, obviously uncomfortable with his new found need to speak his mind. "And you're always fair when you fight for others. It's just your own battles you chose to raise the stakes for."

They both sit in silence, hearing all the words he's left unsaid. Because they both know the battles he refers to are all the ones she fights in his honor. The battles she will always take on even knowing they are the ones she will never win. They both know she will fight for him, with him, and against him, but only she truly knows why she sometimes finds herself on the other side.

"I for one feel this night calls some cause for celebration. You managed to put a bullet in him and arrest him. Not to mention reunite a small boy and his mother." He lifts the arm still solidly pressed against hers and allows himself the pleasure of trailing the backs of his fingers along her cheek. The sole purpose of his movements to remove the curtain of inky hair from his view of her eyes, at least that's what he's sticking with. "I think you've spent enough time repenting the night away."

She weights into his touch, can't seem to stop the way her chin chases his palm, how her cheek presses ever so lightly into the fingers now abandoning her face to settle within the masses of her hair. Can't even hope to control the way her breath catches. She can feel his hesitation, knows he's allowing himself an added few seconds to twirl the ends along the tips of his fingers before finally letting go, and when he does, her eyes meet his.

And they're no longer empty.

"What'd you have in mind?" She asks softly, still a little breathless, but so very hesitant. He smiles than, full and wide. Can't help but wonder after the demons he could slay with more than just the tips of his fingers, wishes for the chance to do more than put the light back in her eyes, turn the moss green to a glowing emerald. He finds himself longing to put some color in her cheeks as well, perhaps a greater hitch in her breath, a streak of desire along the lines of her smile.

He knows he shouldn't push, has no business acting on feelings for this woman while he's still bound to another. He's just never been a patient man. There's never been another like her.

"Come on Lisbon. You, me, and a bottle of whatever you're feeling."

He lets his fingers settle along the length of her thigh. The fluid limbs finding purchase within the gentle curve of her knee for a few fleeting moments before he releases his hold and all at once he's standing again. Extending a hand for her to take, holding her gaze with eyes so full of warmth and determination.

XxX

The tips of her fingers are in his palm before she can even stop and think. She can't remember when the temptation to follow him became a reflex. Won't fight it now, doesn't want to fight it ever again. Knows somewhere behind her grief and mounting self doubt she'll have to rouse it again come the morning. But at the moment she can't bring herself to follow through with anything other than the need to go to him. With him, anywhere.

"I pick the poison, you pick the place?" She smiles at him then, reclaiming her hand to straighten her blazer, regain some self control. He's stepped out into the aisle, she's still standing within the pew, one knee drawn up along the edge of the bench. "Something like that, sure." He returns the smile than, it's so full of light the candles nearly pale in comparison. He turns his eyes toward the alter before giving a nod toward the door. "I'll meet you outside, whenever you're ready."

He turns his eyes on her one more time, a little too heavy, the past's events and future's hope painting the lines of his face. She watches him go, hands buried deep within the pockets of his jacket. Wants to tell him she's ready now, doesn't want to miss another moment of his company after he's made her feel so much.

She turns for the altar, forces herself to wait until she no longer feels his presence before dropping her knee to the aisle floor. She lifts her right hand and follows another practiced gesture, fluid and seamless. She knows he's right, she's spent too long repenting. She feels almost foolish now, after wasting so many moments asking for forgiveness when she cannot truly regret her actions.

She finds herself hesitating, her gait slowing as she comes upon the door. She knows she's a little too emotional, a little too bruised to be spending time with him like this. And it frightens her how much she cannot seem to care.

She knows he's waiting for her now, said he'll wait as long as she needs. Hopes his patience isn't limited to this one night. It's moments like these she feels they've already waited too long and yet she can't help but feel their time hasn't yet come.

She pushes out into the darkness, eager to rid herself of every moment of the last few days, to place the remainder of the night in his hands. Knows he'll find a way to make her forget, even if it's just for one night.

A/N: Thanks so much for taking the time to read this… And thank you, M- for everything!