This three-part story was written for the Jello Forever Secret Santa exchange as a gift for Nellie (NellieTheItalian).
Title: Hostage of Love
Rating: T
Characters: Lisbon/Jane
Prompt: Jane is lying and Lisbon knows why.
Summary: How would it affect Lisbon if she and Jane turned to each other for comfort after the events of 2x08? "She warmed to the concept of revenge when Sam Bosco's blood stained her hands red and making herself a hostage of her unconditional love for Jane surely wasn't the cure for that."
Warning: This isn't a happy story at all.
A/N: This story begins right after the end of 2x08 "His Red Right Hand" and any events of later episodes are disregarded in this story, simply because I hadn't seen them yet when I wrote this. A big thank-you to my dear friend Pavla who had the "pleasure" to listen to me whining all the while I wrote this and who provided me with much needed moral support.
Part 1: And so it begins
With faltering steps Lisbon walks through the nightly drizzle after the cab drops her off at her apartment. At the door she pauses for a moment to inhale deeply and to shake off a fit of dizziness. She is angry with herself about drinking so much tonight, but really – what else is there to do to numb the pain? Any other kind of solace is too complicated to even consider it.
It was one hell of a week. Not the worst she ever had, but definitely close to it. Losing people shouldn't get to her so much, after all she has a whole lot of experience with it. Before she can get any more cynical, she goes inside where neglected moving boxes and mainly empty walls stare back at her. One day she'll turn these rooms into a home. Then she won't feel so lost and strange anymore in the one place that should provide her with comfort. But not tonight, tonight she just wants to sleep and to pretend being oblivious to the events of the past days.
But as so often, she doesn't get what she wants. After a knock at her door, she finds Jane standing in front of it. With his tired eyes and wrinkled clothes he looks just the way she feels herself. She doesn't ask any questions. She isn't even surprised that he is here. He isn't unwelcome. After their brief exchange of empty phrases less than an hour ago, when she found him in semi-darkness absorbed in the study of Sam's files, she is glad that he opted against getting completely lost in the chase for Red John.
At least for tonight.
"I just..." He begins, but never finishes.
Taking a step aside, she wordlessly lets him in. The chilly air sobers her but also makes her shiver, so she closes the door and shields Jane and herself from the rest of the world. She waits for him to speak first because she can't think of anything significant to say. Her hands begin to sweat as the silence spreads out between them and threatens to swallow everything. Her mouth is dry. The seconds stretch endlessly, but she still refuses to waste any time searching for a proper conversation topic.
Jane clears his throat.
As if awoken from a trance, Lisbon lifts her head. Finally their eyes meet and refuse to sever for what seems like a very long time, before she turns away and silently guides them to the seating area.
"He told me to look after you."
Those words that Jane said earlier, Sam Bosco's alleged last request, danced around in her mind all night and now she wonders if they are the reason for Jane ending up at her place.
She suddenly becomes aware of the fact that Jane isn't anything like Sam Bosco. But she also realizes that while she was able to recognize, analyze and safely store away her feelings for Sam within a months after meeting him, she never even allowed herself to consciously acknowledge the presence of any feelings for Jane.
The man across from her isn't modest. He isn't even particularly nice a lot of the time. And this is ridiculous. Unbearable. It isn't natural to sit together in silence without eventually engaging in insipid small talk or breaking out in uncomfortable laughter. But still she doesn't want him to leave for anything in the world. And this is what makes this situation so unbearable: the overwhelming need to be with him.
Simply to divert her thoughts, she offers Jane a drink. But he reclines, just says no, and instead gets up to inspect her books and comment on them.
She doesn't react to his zealous mocking of her choice in reading material. It's too easy. Deliberate provocation might work with others, but not with her. Not tonight.
If she would be able to, she would laugh.
And if she was strong enough, she'd tell him to go.
And if she wasn't so afraid of the answer, she'd ask him why he is here.
But she is determined to persevere, to hide any trace of increasing nervousness.
His fingers.
His lips.
His seemingly relaxed manner.
His way of orchestrating the temptation.
He comes back, book in hand, and sits down across from her again.
She starts toying with the cross around her neck to avoid tapping her toes or twirling a strand of hair around her index finger. Jane quotes Shakespeare and she fiddles around with her cross pendant.
Instead of talking. About everything or nothing.
His eyes are blue in the dim light of her living room. Not sky-blue. Not like the sea. It's a distant blue. A chary, almost non-existent blue that doesn't match the confidence Jane tries to radiate tonight.
Lisbon stands up just to do something. She takes a few unsure steps, but stops when she notices that Jane observes her every move. The color of his eyes breaks and she feels the walls she built up so carefully crumble.
Conventions and civility.
Their status, the regulations.
This masquerade for years.
Does it matter anymore?
Lost time, unimaginable suffering.
And still, this perseverance. This miracle to resist everything, everyone, and yet to remain relatively sane.
She approaches him very slowly, already aware how world-shattering and bold her gesture is. But now it isn't a question of braveness anymore, it is an ineluctable event. The reason why he came here tonight is the same reason why she let him in.
And so it begins.
Suddenly, almost too fast, they are face to face.
Blinking made of blueness.
The delicacy of his eyelids.
Invitation.
She tries to convince herself that he isn't here merely to fulfill a promise he made at a deathbed.
Her hand touches his cheek. Her nose skims his nose.
Two mouths.
Two aspirations.
Two lives.
When she tastes the skin of his lips for the first time, she wants to believe that they are more than just the result of too much tequila combined with loneliness.
Smooth teeth.
Testy lips, half-open.
The tip of his tongue is surprisingly gentle, surprisingly urging.
Exploration.
Ardency.
Life.
She rests her head against his neck. Only now she notices that she crawled into his lap. She inhales, exhales, doesn't look at him. Their first kiss, it is over. They will kiss again, but never again for the first time.
This surprise. This confession. Her boldness. Never again.
Jane wraps his arms around her waist, lifts his head above hers. For a while he is keeping silent. Then, "Good thing I know where your bedroom is."
His struggle to carry her up the stairs and his failure to find the hook of her bra makes her grin. This imperfection, his humanness, is liberating and persuades her that inviting him into her home, her bed and her life isn't a mistake.
TBC...