The single serve coffee maker sputtered the end of the brew and the pump hummed, filling the well to await the next press of the button. Of course there was tea in the brew cup. Chamomile. Patrick closed his eyes to breathe in the sweet fragrance of a field of sun-warmed tiny white flowers. 'To sleep, perchance not to dream,' he paraphrased aloud, turning the quote from Hamlet on its head.
Deeply suspicious of the device given to him as a gift, Patrick Jane relented one exhausted night and allowed it to brew tea for him, finding it surprisingly palatable. He still brewed his "important" cups of the day the proper way because the ritual of the kettle and the tea bag, the cup and saucer, were important and satisfying. But a cup of chamomile before bed was more about the chamomile than the ritual.
Jane opened the curtain and sat in darkness at the table in his trousers and bare feet, shirt unbuttoned and open, to look at the night lights and watch traffic pass across the parking lot from his motel room window. It was his regular seat for ruminating when he wasn't at the CBI in his attic or on his bullpen couch there.
Certainly his deductions and plans concerning Red John consumed most of his thinking time. But more and more Teresa Lisbon filled his mind. Learning to be the real partner she demanded had practically re-made him, turned him into a man she could rely on, trust. At least regarding the professional aspects of their relationship. Now he found that the deeper roots fed his character, flushing new branches into the sun. There was more Patrick somehow. Was this what it meant to be made whole?
Always present, his physical attraction to Lisbon had only grown. There were nights when the physical and the sexual were prominent in his thoughts, sometimes controlling his body especially in sleep. But most nights were like this, the physical a warm hum that pinned his reasoning to reality. More and more, Teresa Lisbon was becoming his reality. And she knew nothing of it.
Jane finished his tea without responding to it as his usual signal to get in bed. He was too absorbed in thought and especially feeling to disrupt them by moving.
When he'd contracted with the CBI as a consultant for the Red John and other cases, suddenly what he did had repercussions for a small team of people and particularly for Teresa Lisbon, the senior agent in charge of the team. It had taken him a long time to understand that, even longer to actually care about it. Lisbon was the difference.
Before he had acknowledged that he had fallen in love with Lisbon, Jane's revenge quest for Red John was the focal point of everything he did. It occupied the place in his life that passion would for other people. No. It was his passion. It consumed him, drove him to take chances, heedless of the consequences to himself or to those around him. He figured they had to know it was part of the risk of his involvement with them. The quest for revenge spent him like sex spent normal people.
There were so many things that he loved about Lisbon, but she made it easier for him to hide it by not signaling a return of his love. Regard, yes. Friendship, of a sort. But Jane could play his reserve and singularity for all it was worth and make the screen against his love impenetrable to her. It was a sad success really. Everything inside him now sought the expression, not the suppression of his love for Lisbon.
But it was her own demands of him for true partnership on the job, and his capitulation, that catapulted her into the realization that she was in love with Patrick Jane. With him! That made him the luckiest man in the world. But he believed it put her in danger of her life from Red John, who would not abide the pleasure of human love in Jane's life.
It was the most inopportune time for Lisbon to be slammed with her feelings for him. Orchid Lane. He watched her know she'd been hit with something that hurt to her core, his choice to trust Loralei over herself and the team. Jane had played that moment over and over in his mind since that night, the moment that Lisbon realized it was personal, that her heart was at stake and not just the job. Her ultimatum to choose, Loralei or her, was as much a sword over her own neck as it was for him. It was Lisbon. It could only be Lisbon. Hunting for Red John or hunting for his true life. It was Lisbon.
Partners was not just about the team. It was about his loyalty to her, about whether he would choose her. For the team, yes, but now even more deeply, as a woman and as his woman. No wonder she probably didn't realize its name at the time, struggling for the professional balance she needed in the moment. But he knew it as a familiar friend, love and longing for another. Lisbon definitely knew it now. She had chosen Jane.
But Lisbon didn't know Jane's feelings. In fact, the only thing she knew about them for sure was that more than a year ago, after saying, "Love you," he had denied remembering it. Cruel. And weak. But, he thought, necessary for Lisbon's safety. She would not risk opening herself to him again. As close as she came to revealing herself at Orchid Lane, any move would have to be his now. Her lips would be cemented shut. For good reason. She didn't trust Patrick Jane with her heart.
The night was chilling him. Jane undressed to his shorts and got into bed, snuggling under the covers as much to ward off his thoughts as to get warm.
-o-
"Okay. Cho. Rigsby. Van Pelt. You set a perimeter and start canvassing the area. Jane. With me. We'll go talk to the family."
Jane looked forward to a day in the countryside, even if it did involve a dead body and grieving relatives. Their tasks were completed by early afternoon and both were hungry for lunch. Lisbon let the rest of the team work its way back to CBI.
"Lisbon, it's a beautiful day. We should get lunch to go and have a little picnic on the way home. What do you say?"
"Sure. That sounds nice. Anything particular in mind?"
"No. Let's just find a deli section somewhere and get whatever looks good."
They plopped a lunch of thick sandwiches, fruit and bottles of fizzy lemonade on a picnic table set back from the main section of a roadside park. Bright sunshine glimmered through the leafy canopy and sparkled off the leaves in distant trees, ruffling in the mild breezes.
Lisbon had lost her cheery chattiness over the weeks since the video from Red John and the list of seven suspects. Jane evaluated the toll of her sleeplessness and loss of appetite, something he took note of every day now, and the direction of the medical chart in his memory palace was worrisome. Petite and slender, the beautiful brunette could not afford to lose weight. A pretense of normal day-to-day life was overcast by the pall of reality and it pained Jane to see the toll it was taking on her.
Lisbon was also evaluating Jane. Unusually quiet. And a little flushed for the mildness of the weather. "Everything okay, Jane?"
"Huh? Oh. Yeah. Yeah. Sure. I was just wondering the same about you, Lisbon. I think you're not sleeping well and you're losing weight."
Dodge and deflect. Good old Patrick Jane. Not today. "Too many assurances, Jane. And then you change the subject to me. What's going on?"
"Okay. Well, yes, of course I've had a lot on my mind and so have you. But I'm used to thinking about being Red John's target. You're new to it."
Lisbon paused, unwilling to accept Red John as a blanket for every nuance of Patrick Jane's behavior. But what would be the result of trying to confront it? More evasion and sleight of hand. It simply wasn't worth the effort. She pushed her half-eaten half a sandwich away, took a bite of a peach and pushed it to the sandwich, deciding just to finish the lemonade.
A stab of guilt passed through Jane's chest like a cold blade. "You need to eat at least a half a sandwich, Lisbon," he said quietly, not looking at her.
"I know. But I just can't. And it's not because of Red John. You think I'm just now thinking about Red John? I know what he did affects you in a way it never could me or any of the rest of the team, but we've had the case for even longer than that. That's how long we've wanted, and tried, to catch him. So don't assume anything about me and Red John."
"No. Sorry. I forget how long it's been for you, too."
"Look. Don't do that."
Jane looked at her now.
"Don't tippy-toe around me. I won't break."
"But you'll sicken yourself."
Irony. "Fine! I'll eat the damn half a sandwich!"
"Thank you. And the peach, too."
"Who died and made you my mother?" What a stupid thing to say.
Jane looked shocked as the answer floated into his mind. "I guess your mother did. Please. Eat the peach, too."
Lisbon did as he asked. She really did feel better with enough in her stomach. She put the peach stone inside the sandwich wrapper and prepared to throw the rest away. Pulling the sandwich to himself, Jane opened the wrapper. He removed the peach stone and threw it into the grass, then re-wrapped the other sandwich half. "You can finish the rest of this in a little while on the way back. I'm driving."
"Forget that! I'll be a wreck, the way you drive."
"I promise to meet all your expectations for good driving. You can sleep." He pulled the car keys out of his pocket and dangled them smugly in front of her face, snapping them out of the way when she tried to grab them. "I guess I'm your mother today."
"Meaning you're going to take care of me? I don't need that from you, Jane." She was scowling now. When had he purloined the car keys? And what did he know about taking care of anyone? She knew it was an unfair, even uncharitable thought, but she was tired of him pretending to care in every way but how it counted most. And she knew what she meant this time.
To Lisbon's surprise, Jane said softly, "I know. But I need it."
She stared at him quizzically, her mouth open. Was Jane asserting professional or personal responsibility? Just looking after a partner, increasing the safety of the pair?
To Lisbon, cop relationships had to be the most complicated on the planet. Partners were thrown together many more hours and days at a time than most spouses. Partnerships that blossomed into a love relationship could be a minefield. It was natural to grow to love a partner and know them intimately.
Crossing a sexual line could be a constant pull, and handling that temptation exhausting, eventually even unreasonably punishing. If partners were sexually involved, the long and erratic work hours meant a lot of foreplay would take place on the job. If they were not sexually involved, a lot of what could feel like foreplay leading to nothing would take place on the job. With almost no free time for dating or even marriage, not to mention the constant interruptions to the flow of any relationship that the job demanded, it was humanly normal for men and women so intimately close to one another to extend the bond physically.
Why was she even thinking about this? Patrick Jane had no physical designs on her whatsoever. Another cop minefield. When one partner's love yearned for a sexual relationship and the other did not. Agony. No other word. She looked up to find Jane staring at her. "What?"
"Just get in the car, Lisbon. You can lie down in the back seat, if you want."
Stalling a few moments more, she murmured, "No. That's all right. I'll sit up front with you."
A full stomach and the drone of the car motor settled Lisbon into a drowsy stupor quickly. Jane handed her a throw to wad for a pillow and she soon lay with her head low against the door, sleeping. Her body sprawled across the bench seat with her legs dangling uncomfortably, so he brought them up and set her feet on his thigh, hoping it wouldn't strain her knees. He needn't have worried as she handled that in her sleep, settling her feet flat against the side of his thigh, heels resting on the seat, knees bent. How pleasurable to be a small prop to her comfort!
Eventually Lisbon's legs flopped open in relaxation. Jane couldn't help but notice he was an arm's length from touching nearly every part of her body. Stealing glances as he drove, Jane studied Lisbon asleep.
Her fair face, cheeks sleep pink, was sprinkled everywhere with freckles. Dark eyelashes swept lush arcs against that pink and cream. Puckered slightly in relaxation, her small mouth was plump, the lips barely parted for her breath. Her hair seeped over the edge of the seat like dark water, shaken loose by the vibration of the traveling car. One hand anchored in a trouser pocket, her jacket fell open on that side, revealing the small, firm mound of her breast, surprisingly full, jiggling with the imperfections of the road. It made Jane think of ice cream, melting in a cone and how you had to hurry to lick it all before it melted away, gobbling by necessity. Lisbon's slight frame held lush hips, but the tiny vee of her legs made Jane wonder how small everything would be, how tight.
These last thoughts proved too much for his male flesh and he forced himself to concentrate on driving. But not before he stored every detail in his memory palace.
Making a turn to find a restroom in a small town, Lisbon's leg fell from the seat and Jane reached to retrieve it. Lisbon opened her eyes to see him lay it back against his thigh. She gasped and pulled it away, sitting up. He turned to her, prepared to feel guilty for something, but found he could not.
"Sorry. You were, uh . . . asleep. And your leg fell, so I was just . . . putting it back."
"Oh. I hope I didn't make you uncomfortable. Putting my feet all over you, I mean."
He smiled at her warmly. "Not at all. I'm stopping for a restroom now. And then you can eat the rest of your sandwich."
Lisbon stuck her tongue out at his back when he left the car, but fished out her sandwich and finished the other half before he returned. Rattling the wrapper at him, she wadded it up and got out to find the ladies.
It happened on the way home, in a way neither expected.
They were talking about the Red John suspect list. Again. Lisbon's irritation was raw. They never did anything but go in circles about it! Until they had more clues, more information to include in their thinking, or made a new connection with the information they had, there was no point going on about it.
"Can we talk about something else, please? Jane?"
"Oh. You've got something more important?" Her impatience sometimes wore his thin.
"Let's just find something more fruitful to discuss. This is going nowhere. As usual."
"Why don't you lie back down and get some more rest? That was the whole point of me driving." And it would give both of us a little break from . . . this. Jane always felt a little sad when circumstances made him want to get away from Lisbon.
"Stop and let's switch, then. I'll drive."
"Now you're just being contrary, Lisbon."
"Am not!"
Jane arched an eyebrow at her and said nothing. These days it seemed her irritation with him was on the surface and constant, a hot itchy rash. He knew why. Not eating. Not sleeping. Iritability. She was depressed. She'd never admit it to anyone, especially to him. It hurt to know that his own shortcomings and decisions could be at the bottom of it. Maybe it was time to do something about it. But it couldn't be approached intellectually, as a rational discussion. Emotion was the only possible way. And that was going to hurt until they got past it. Then, he hoped, it was going to be bliss.
He picked up the throw and handed it to her. "Here. Lie back and relax. You need it."
"You don't know what I need. We've already established you're not my mother."
"Of course not. I'm someone who can love you in her place. When you need a mother's love."
When Lisbon had caught her breath again, her drawn brow darkened her whole expression. "You want to love me like a mother." The bastard! What was he playing at?
"Of course."
Lisbon's anxiety was rising somewhere over Jupiter. "What are you doing?"
"I'm loving you. Don't you recognize it?"
Love? All Patrick Jane had ever done with love was tease her with it, hurt her. And he was at it again, now! "No! You don't do that to me! Not ever again!" Lisbon's voice reverberated through the confines of the vehicle.
Sensing the volatile turn the discussion was taking, Jane started to slow down, look for a place to pull over. He studied Lisbon's face, all big green eyes and pain. The pallor of her complexion accented the freckles, making her look about twelve years old. If he could just get her to voice the question that lay between the two of them, the one that would make her face the fear of its answer. "You need to ask me a question. Again. I won't deny you an answer this time, Lisbon."
Lisbon didn't have to think which question. "I hate you! You sick son of a bitch! Shut up!" She picked her legs up, curled them to her body and screamed her wordless fury. The pain felt like fire, buried and banked in the ashes of her heart. He dared to scrape it raw, expose it to the air where it flashed to life again!
Jane pulled the car over and parked. He gently placed a hand on her ankle and Lisbon responded as if she'd been branded.
She inhaled a gallon of air in one breath and screamed. "Don't touch me!" She couldn't catch her breath, desire shaking loose a wild rage that layered over the hurt like bubbling tar, now lit. All he did was touch her ankle and she had electricity traveling up and down both legs, circuiting right through her core!
Lisbon's pain was like an arrow shot through Jane's heart and he cried, fat tears rolling down from the corners of his eyes, dripping the sides of his face to soak his collar. He had no words that could express his regret at the anguish he had brought to the woman he loved.
"Ask me, Lisbon." His voice was soft and low.
Oh, Jesus. He was crying. "Ask you what? Why are you doing this?" Although she fought for it, she just couldn't control what was happening to her now. She shuddered to think how she must look to him, how weak, all semblance of professionalism debris at their feet.
"Ask me. You know what to ask me."
Lisbon made a sound deep in her chest like the distant howling of wolves. It trailed out before it broke into wracking sobs, a near-hysterical grasping at release and inhibition simultaneously, destined for collapse. "Noooooooooo!" She didn't want to know the painful answer right now. She wasn't ready.
Curling his hand softly on the top of her foot, Jane said, "Yes. Ask me. I promise I'll tell you the truth this time."
Accepting his touch now, she crooned, taking time to soothe herself, building her courage, the sobs devolving into soft hiccups. At least she would know the truth. It couldn't be worse than what she was feeling right now. The fear of the answer was making everything worse.
"Promise?"
"Yes, Lisbon. I promise."
"The truth? No tricks?"
"The truth. Ask me."
"Because you can hurt me, Jane. Hurt me really bad."
"I have hurt you bad. I know I have, Lisbon. I'm sorry. Please."
"What did you mean when you said, 'Love you?' before you pretend shot me?"
Jane closed his eyes and smiled, his face still wet with tears. He could feel the grace of the universe fly to him in the great rushing gale of his ecstasy. "I meant I love you, Teresa Lisbon. I love you with all my heart and I don't know what I'd do if you weren't in my life. I meant be with me always. I meant make love to me, take me into your bed. Come into my bed. Let me hold your hand. Let me rock you to sleep. I meant let me fix your boo-boos. I meant kiss me. Let me give you babies. Anything. Just be with me. Forever."
Lisbon launched herself into his arms where they cried together, at first in the wrenching relief of love long unrecognized and now tugged lustily across the threshold, but then as simple release of the pain of years of unnatural separation. Those tears did not last as long since Jane and Lisbon were not separated anymore and neither wanted to waste time with tears.
"Let me fix your boo-boos?"
They both laughed, but Jane said, "Yes! I can bring you mother love and father love, too. It's all there, isn't it Lisbon?"
Jane and his wild, beautiful ideas. She gently brushed back the damp curls from his temple. "But mostly I want lover love."
"So do I." Lisbon was right there in his arms. He was holding her and all he had to do was lower his head to capture her lips, there! So soft, so eager for him. She flowed like warm honey into his veins, wiping away any sense that his life had been anything other than this intoxicatingly sweet.
Lisbon felt herself drifting into the kiss, filling spaces inside Jane like sweet smoke. Soft places, inviting places, loving places she'd only glimpsed from outside of him. And she felt Jane drift into the empty parts of her, places that drew him longingly like breath after a near suffocation. If this could happen in a kiss, what would sex be like? The urgency she now felt would not tolerate clothing.
Lisbon surfaced from her languor to find Jane stroking her side from the soft swell of her breast at the ribcage all the way down her flank to her knee. Her back was arched and her hips rose to him. She broke the kiss as Jane's hand began a journey across her belly, his fingers searching under the loose hem of her blouse. They were not going to do this in the car and certainly not on the side of the highway. Jane looked confused as his eyes focused on her face and then he smiled sheepishly.
"Sorry. I got lost in there, Teresa." It didn't seem enough to call her Lisbon, just then, with those half-lidded green eyes like gems in her flushed face and the lips he had swollen with his own kisses.
Their tender regions were swollen and moist in the ways native to their genders, although Jane's condition was certainly more obvious to Lisbon than hers to him.
"We need to get back on the road, Jane." She burned to touch him, pictured her hand opening his trousers and . . . she shifted out of his arms.
Softly, he cleared his throat and said, "Right. Time to get back home."
Teresa scooted to her side of the car, but after a short time both felt the unnecessary austerity of the separation. She sat against him, his arm looped across her shoulder for most of the remaining distance, then separated again as they entered town. They would be developing whole new sets of behavior patterns in the unveiling future to accommodate their new status and needs, both personal, professional and as prey.