Hey everyone! I'm back! Sorry for the atrociously long wait, but things have been really crappy at home lately so I haven't had any time to write. However, I found this hiding in the depths of my laptop, so I've decided to post it. It's not much, but I have a lot of feels, so yeah. Here you go!
The first one comes that same night, not twenty minutes after the elevator doors closed between them.
"Jane, it's me. I was serious about coming over later, okay? I'll bring dinner. We can talk about this; I can help."
The second comes a couple of hours later, but it's too late.
"Jane, where are you? I'm outside. Jesus Jane, it's freezing. Let me in. We need to talk."
He listens to every single message. It's his punishment for hurting her, leaving her, and if he wants to torture himself with the sound of her voice, no one can stop him.
"Jane, please. Talk to me. Where are you? I can come pick you up. I need to know that you're okay. Jane, come on."
After a week she decides to change tactics.
"I swear to God, Jane, if you don't come back by the end of today I will hunt you down and beat your sorry ass. This is ridiculous. You need to talk to someone."
He's only been in Vegas for a month, and already has three broken ribs. Lisbon's no longer there to protect him, but that doesn't stop him from pissing off the wrong people anyways. He's asking for it. Anything to punish himself.
"Jane, please. I'm begging you to come ba- no, not even that. Just… talk to me. Give me something. I need to know that you're okay."
The second month is the worst. She's just starting to realize that he might never return, and the desperation is evident behind every message. She calls him one night, at three in the morning. He's awake. He knows she can't sleep, and he knows that it's his fault. Even when he's gone, he can't stop hurting her. She cries when she calls.
"Jane, it's me. If you-" She can't speak for a moment, and a sob tears from her throat. He starts to cry as well, but forces himself to continue listening.
"Tell me what's wrong; tell me why you can't come back. What happened? I can fix it, I promise. I just- What did I do, Jane? I thought you trusted me. You know I can help. Please, Jane."
I'm doing this to protect you. I'm doing this to protect you. He thinks over and over again, trying to convince himself that it's the best thing, the only thing he can do.
It doesn't work.
The calls come less frequently over the next month, and he starts to think that maybe she's moving on. The idea gives him hope and destroys him at the same time.
"Jane, it's Van Pelt. Lisbon's in the hospital. A suspect got her over the head with a lead pipe. She's in surgery right now, but it isn't looking good. If you care about her at all, get your ass back over here."
He wants to call back, needs to call back. If she's hurt, if she di- no. He can't leave. He's too close now. Still, he sits on his bed for over three hours, phone in hand, waiting for one of them to call.
"Hey, it's Rigsby. Doctor just came in. Lisbon's gonna be okay. Just thought you might want to know. If not, whatever."
His heart skips a beat and tears stream down his face. She's okay.
Jane knows that Rigsby is mad at him; they all are. He appreciates more than anything the fact that they call him, even though they think he doesn't care. Because he does. More than anything.
The next call doesn't come for another two weeks, on her birthday. She doesn't mention it.
"It's me again. I just- I hope you're happy. Wherever you are, I hope to God you're safe and happy and okay. And I just want you to know that I…um-" She pauses for a moment and he can picture her, pressing her lips together and looking up, trying to find the right words to say. His breath catches in his throat because she's going to say it and he's equal parts terrified and excited because he wants nothing more than to hear those three words but at the same time, he knows that they'll tear him apart. It's too soon.
"I miss you. And I hope one day you might be able to find a way to come back here." He has to sit on his hands to stop himself from calling her. Just three years ago he'd been sitting with the team, watching Lisbon open her presents. Now he's 500 miles away from there, from her, in some dirty motel room, nursing a bruised jaw. The pain hits him like a bus and he stands up, swinging his arm back, poised to send his phone flying across the room. He pauses. It's the only connection he has to her right now. Lowering his arm, he cradles the phone to his chest. It's a poor substitute for his Lisbon, but it's the best he can do.