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A/N: This is an idea for a scene that's been in my head awhile, a sort of exploration into Jane and Lisbon's dynamic during the hard times ahead on the hunt for Red John. No spoilers, some speculation. This wasn't beta'd, so I claim full responsibility for any mistakes!
Her office is dark, the shades drawn, but he knows she's still in there. He saw her enter after the funeral, and he has yet to see her emerge. Rigsby and Cho never came back to the precinct; he vaguely recalls Cho saying something about taking Rigsby to a bar. But while they can numb themselves with alcohol, that's never been Lisbon's style. She's the brooding type, the kind of person who completely withdraws into herself, like a wounded animal, overly protective of any weakness or vulnerability.
He enters without knocking and finds her just as he imagined: sitting behind her desk, staring off into space. He notices her cheeks are dry, now, though her eyes are red and puffy. He wonders how long she's been crying, and how she managed to keep it so quiet. But then, she's always managed to keep her most vulnerable moments, the ones in which she breaks down and completely loses control, from him. From everyone, but especially, it feels, from him.
She doesn't glance his way when he enters, doesn't even take her gaze off the spot on the wall upon which her eyes are fixed. He thinks about saying something, but he's not sure where or how to begin. Instead he makes his way over to her and takes the seat in front of her desk.
"You're still here." It's not a question, but a statement, and one she says without looking at him.
"So are you," he points out quietly. His mouth has suddenly gone very dry. He can see, just from the tension in her profile, that she's still processing everything, still hasn't come to terms with the fact that Red John has claimed another victim. She especially hasn't accepted the fact that this time, it's a member of their own team.
He wants to say he's sorry, but he can't find the words. He doesn't know when he became so damaged, so corrupted, that he can't even bring himself to muster up some human empathy in a moment in which Lisbon, his Lisbon, needs it most. But the fight with Red John has changed him, especially so in the past few weeks, ever since he narrowed down his list of suspects to seven. His focus on catching and killing Red John has heightened to the point where he can see, think, and feel nothing else. He can't even make room inside himself, shelve away his strong desire to snap the neck of one of the remaining four men on the list, to mourn the death of a colleague.
"We're close now, Lisbon," Jane says. Because that's all he can say, all that can justify the utter path of destruction that his hunt for Red John has brought. "We're so close. I can feel it. That's why he's slipping up. That's why he went after-"
"Shut up!" she snaps, anger finally erupting, radiating from her as she turns to face him at last. "Just shut up, Jane." Her eyes are blazing, but he can't look away. "You're not any closer than you were yesterday, or the day before that, the week before that, or even the year before that. You know nothing of where Red John is, or who he is, or why he killed Grace." She's shaking with anger now. He tries to reach out, to touch her hand reassuringly, but she takes both her hands off the desk, crossing her arms as she stares him down, challenges him to come up with some semblance of a reason why he doesn't feel something about Grace Van Pelt's death.
But she's wrong on that assessment, because he does feel something. He feels what he's felt all along, only stronger, more consuming. He wants revenge. Grace's death is just one more name to add to the list of people he's avenging when he finally manages to kill Red John.
"I am closer to knowing who he is," he counters. His tone is low, disguising his anger. The anger's not directed at her so much as at himself, because while he has a list, and it's down to four, he might as well be throwing darts at the names on a wall for all he knows about which of the four it is. "This is a bump in the road, Lisbon. It's just a bump in the road. Everyone on this team made the decision to be part of the fight. Casualties were to be expected."
"Can you hear yourself?" Lisbon shakes her head, full of disgust. "It's like I don't even know you anymore. Grace hardly made the decision of her own free will. She did it out of obligation to you, or to me, or even because she feels guilty about what happened with Craig. But this is your vendetta, not hers or anyone else's. Just because she was willing to help, don't think for one second that she was willing to die for you."
The image is still scarred on his brain: Grace's body, limp and broken, lying beneath that tell-tale red smiley face. She had been surrounded by a pool of blood. Red John had even painted her nails with it. He knows that Lisbon is right, that maybe Grace wasn't willing to die for him, but she had to know what she had been getting herself into by joining them. He shifts guiltily in his seat.
But he can't accept responsibility for her death, he can't do it. Because accepting responsibility for Grace's death would be like losing Angela and Charlotte all over again. People he'd always wanted to keep safe had been murdered because of him. He has to take comfort in the fact that Grace was a CBI agent, that she had already put herself in the line of fire by virtue of her job, because if he has to accept his personal role in her death, he's not sure he can live with himself. He knows he needs to catch and kill Red John now more than ever, and he can't lose his resolve just because Lisbon wants him to take (some of) the blame for Grace's death.
"All you can see is Red John," Lisbon begins quietly. When Jane looks at her, he can see her eyes brimming with tears. She's mourning him, too, the fact Red John has consumed even. He's still alive, but he's possessed by his obsession. "All you can think about is getting your hands around his neck. And for years, for years, I went along with it because I knew that in the end I could rein you in." She's shaking her head again, pulling away from him. Even as she chastises him, he can hear the tone of self-loathing in her voice, her self-hatred that she's gone along with his scheme. Her guilt at an agent's death. Her self-doubt, her wavering conviction.
"It wasn't your fault," he tries to say, but she laughs scathingly.
"Then who-in-the-hell's fault was it?"
He opens his mouth to say it, but her glare cuts him off. Because even if the murder happened at Red John's hands, some fault might still lie with others. He knows that no one, not even Rigsby, blames Lisbon in the slightest for what happened to Grace, although he knows that Lisbon will blame herself regardless. Her sense of duty, the sense of obligation to protect that she felt toward her team, both qualities that he admires in her so much, have reduced her to this: crying silently in a dark office, trying to shut out the harsh realities of the world.
He can't say it's his because he knows that's not entirely true; if it's his, it's not his alone. And it certainly isn't hers. And as much as he wants to say Red John's, he knows he must accept the role that his actions played in the murder of Grace Van Pelt.
Lisbon watches him carefully in the silence, and he can feel himself withering under her stern gaze. Finally he meets her eyes as he whispers, "Everyone's."
A/N: Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed, and please consider leaving me a review. Just over one month to the season premiere - we're almost there!