He wants to be tender
and merciful. That sounds overly valorous.
Sounds like penance. And his hands?
His hands keep turning into birds and
flying away from him. Him being you.
Yes. Do you love yourself? I don't have to
answer that. It should matter.
Richard Siken, 'Unfinished Duet'
XXX
IV.
The bed is hard and there's a reflection of a bloody smiley face hanging in a nearby mirror.
Sometimes, Jane hates being right.
There's a sudden warmth next to him, and he knows it's Lisbon without even looking. She is quiet and sad, and when she turns to look at him he almost drowns in the defeat he sees resting in her eyes.
"Next time, we'll get him." Her words are unconvincing, hollow. She presses a finger to his arm, and there's a weight that settles itself somewhere in his chest. (In a different scenario, he thinks he could love her.)
"Next time," he echoes, without conviction. There have been far too many next times, and he doesn't really believe her anymore.
She leans in closer to him, fingers bumping into his knee. "I promise, Jane," she says, and there's something different in her voice this time. "I promise."
He almost believes her.
II.
He wants her to trust him, can feel the need clawing at the back of his throat, digging in and drawing blood. (It feels a lot like drowning.)
"Lisbon, I want you to know that you can trust me. No matter what happens I will be there for you. I will. I need you to know that."
This is the part he regrets, because it feels like a lie and a promise that starts choking him as soon as the words fall from his mouth. (I'm always going to save you, Lisbon, whether you like it or not.)
He catches her.
V.
She smelled like strawberries and cream, strawberries and cream, strawberries and cream.
Jane dreams about Lisbon while he is in jail, and in his dreams she is beautiful, and she hates him, and she smells like strawberries and cream.
Listen dear, you are stunning, he tells her, but there's a strange taste in his mouth and blood on his hands, so instead it comes out as trust me, Lisbon.
She doesn't. She doesn't trust him. She shoots him instead and then disappears, and this is Patrick Jane's worst nightmare right now.
"Hello, Jane."
She smells like cinnamon, so he knows this is real.
"Hi, Lisbon." He reaches across the table and grips her hand.
She watches him with sad green eyes and he has let her down (lied to her and disobeyed her. If this were a trust fall he would have dropped her).
"Was it worth it, Jane?" Her voice is cold and biting, and he never meant to hurt her.
"Do you miss me?"
She frowns, slipping her fingers out of his grasp. "That's not an answer."
"Neither is that."
He can practically see the response on the tip of her tongue. I miss you every second of every day or we're a family or- (He is a foolish, foolish man.)
Her chair scrapes loudly against the floor as she stands up suddenly. "Goodbye, Jane."
There's really nothing else to say.
(There is no option where this ends happily, where they are together and bursting with light, but he wants to try so badly.)
III.
He's pretending to be asleep when Lisbon slides the heavy door open and shatters the solitude of his attic. She doesn't say anything, just stands there in the fading sunlight that's streaming through the windows, and she waits.
Jane shifts uncomfortably on his makeshift bed. "Lisbon?" His voice cracks on the last half of her name.
"Yes?"
(Tell me I'm a good person.) "I'm sorry."
"It's all right, Jane," she says, but her voice is too tired and she doesn't sound like Lisbon.
Jane opens his eyes, searching for Lisbon's face in the dying light of the attic. Her smile is half-hearted. "It's okay, Jane, really," she says as she sits down beside him, and she is such a bad liar.
"I'll make it up to you," he says softly, his fingers touching her elbow and then sliding down to press against her hand.
The world outside the attic window is almost dark, and the streetlights start to flicker on. Jane glances up at the ink black sky and then turns back to Lisbon, watching the struggle play out across her face.
Something in his chest tightens suddenly, and he wishes they were away from all the dust and death and secrets of his attic. (Lisbon deserves so much better.)
She looks at him, her eyes serious and beautiful in the shadows of the room. "This is what friends do, Jane," she says finally, her voice firm, and there aren't any lies this time.
Lisbon curls her fingers around his hand and turns to look out the window.
They sit together and watch the stars come out.
I.
The man sitting in front of Lisbon is broken and weary, and he stares at her with empty eyes as she spreads the photos out on the table in front of them.
"So," she starts, pausing when she realizes that he won't look at her. (There's red everywhere he looks and he hasn't slept in ages.) Lisbon's fingers tap against one of the pictures, and it's of a bloody smiley face, and this is what changes everything.
She fumbles for the right words.
"We'll catch him, Mr. Jane," she says finally. "I promise."