Messages
By Alasse Fefalas
Disclaimer: I don't own the series. Really!
"Hey, it's Lisbon. Don't you do anything stupid, okay? I'm going over tonight, and we'll talk it over, okay? See you."
"It's Lisbon. Didn't find you last night at your house or at your motel. Where ARE you anyway? Call me back."
"Jane? It's Lisbon. Call me."
"I'm getting really worried about you. Call back, okay?"
"Hey, it's been a week. Haven't heard back from you at all. Talk to me, please. We'll get through this."
"Lisbon here, why... wait. (muffled) Did we get a break? Okay. You go first, I'll see you at the lobby. (Normal) Call me."
"I get you're not going to return any calls, just... just take care of yourself, okay?"
"I can't believe I'm still trying to get a hold of you even after a month. Maybe I'm stupid."
"I thought maybe I'd try calling you in the middle of the night. See if you'd pick up. I guess not."
"... Jerk."
"I feel like I'm talking to myself, calling you like this and you not picking up. This is... this is stupid."
"Just at least once? Call back?"
"You're turning me into an insomniac, you jerk."
"Dammit, idiot."
"Let me help you..."
"So I heard you're in Vegas. At least call me back. Or call Cho or Rigsby, I don't care. Just... call, okay?"
"Damn, it."
"You know what? I give up. Don't call back, don't even get in touch. Just go."
Patrick Jane listened to each one of the messages Lisbon had left him when he faked his breakdown and disappeared from the team for six months. He listened to the pain, hurt, anger and sadness in her voice, each message having at least a small note of each emotion. The last message she left him hurt him bad, but he knew he deserved it.
Guilt washed over him as he went through the messages one by one. Guilt for not telling her. Guilt for not trusting her. Guilt for not calling back even for one time. Guilt for making her, and thus the team, fake deaths just to catch Red John. Guilt for not catching the bastard.
But he knew he couldn't stop until he caught the man who killed his wife and child. And he knew he wouldn't. But Lisbon deserved one thing, at least. Still holding his phone, he dialled the number blindly – his thumbs knew where to go without him guiding them. He glanced at the clock that glared in fire red, "1:38AM."
He knew she wouldn't pick up the phone. She was still mad at him, after all, for not calling back. The past week he had been back, never once did she pick up a phone call from him after she left the office for the night, and calling her in the middle of the night wouldn't change that. There was no answer, and he was directed to the inbox where, for the past calls he had never left a message, but that night, he did leave one. It beeped once, and he left the shortest message he had ever left for her.
"I'm sorry."