yuputka

(n.) the phantom sensation of something crawling on one's skin
|ulwa|

And now, whenever he is the tiniest bit drunk and feels lonely and isolated and oh god, so very very alone, he thinks of her, indulges in different memories of her, dreams up scenario after scenario involving her, makes up various conversations with her in his head, replays his moments spent with her and lets himself revel in his imagination.

Yes, he is aware of how very pathetic it makes him look and he feels bad for oh so many reasons, first and last of all being his feelings of guilt. But in the end, it doesn't matter anymore, Angela is gone, has been for years and is not coming back. He wishes he could just accept it and move on, build a new life – preferably with Lisbon – and start living but something is holding him back. No, not something. He is. Red John. Jane practically spats the two words out in his mind and then shudders.

It's always like this, letting him get carried away with something, anything, really, always leads to Red John in the end. Every day, every night. Whenever he does manage to get a wink of sleep, it's only to dream of the serial killer and his stupid smiling face.

He shakes his head and tries to snap out of it but it's too late, he's almost too far gone. But then his gaze falls onto his phone, which is currently vibrating with an incoming phone call. Lisbon. Her grinning face fills up the display and he smiles to himself. He took that picture when she wasn't even aware of him. He had just given her another origami frog and she was watching the paper animal jump and he captured that moment perfectly.

He hopes it's nothing work related because he's slightly too drunk to really function right now. He slides his finger over the phone and answers with a "hello?" that comes out as a french sounding 'ello. He chuckles to himself and tries to sober up when he hears her voice. "Are you okay?" She asks hesitantly. And then today comes rushing back to him. The red smiley face. The body covered in blood. "Yes, no. Yes, I.. dunno," he answers honestly and slurs only the slightest bit, for which he is definitely proud of himself.

"I – I just wanted to check in on you and... y'know, today was bad." He nods, before realizing she can't see that and saying, "You're right. But, really, what's one more in the grand scheme of things?" He knows, he sounds cynical and just this side of being a total dick but he can't bring himself to care right now. He hears her sharp intake of breath and apologizes before she can hang up on him. "I'm sorry. 'is just that.. you're right. Today was bad. How are you doing?"

She hesitates before answering. "I'm actually... actually outside your motel." She lets that statement sink in and he nods again, instantly sobering up. When he doesn't respond, she hastily adds, "Not like to... monitor you or anything. This was a bad idea," she mutters more to herself than anything else. It's then that he snaps into focus and quickly says, "I'll be outside in a sec." With that he hangs up and shuffles over to the door, but not before putting the empty bottles into the sink and splashing some water on his face.

When he swings the door open, he sees the headlights of her car going off. In less than a minute, she is standing before him and holding a bag of Chinese take-out in her hand. "I thought you probably wouldn't eat on a day like this." "Aww, Lisbon, you take such good care of me," he says and steps aside in an invitation to let her in. When she crosses the threshold, she takes in the scene before her and raises an eyebrow at him.

She's been here once before, to pick him up when his old, old stupid car had been broken. But then she'd only come as far as the door before he ushered her outside, his suit jacket still in hand. Now, though, she really sees where he lives. Living might even be taking it a bit far. Where he wreaks havoc. The bed unmade, nothing personal anywhere. The place is the mess of a person that is a mess. At least it's clean as in no dirty plates in the sink or anything.

He looks sheepish, one hand buried in his golden curls. "Uh, you didn't exactly give me a warning you'd be coming over," he says, in way of explaining things. She lowers her eyebrow and grins at him. "That's okay. I didn't really count on being greeted by flowers and landscape paintings on the walls." He laughs then and suddenly she finds herself crushed against him in a huge hug.

She hesitantly wraps her arms around his waist and sags into his body. She can't help it, the somehow fresh and clean scent of his combined with the soft material of his dress shirt makes her want to drown in him. "Thank you," he whispers into her hair and she nods against his chest and mumbles a "you're welcome" into the fabric. After what feels like a minute, or an hour, he loosens his grip on her and softly pushes her a foot away from him.

"You brought Chinese?" he asks and she barely manages to smile before he has snagged the bag away from her fingers and is tearing it open. "Aw, you know we so well," he says and holds up the spring rolls. "Those are for me, idiot," she replies, knowing full well, he hates them. "I brought you Chow Mein." She walks over to the kitchen area to look through the drawers for forks.

He follows her every movement with his eyes and with mirth sparkling in them, says, "Second to last drawer on the left." "You didn't even know what I was looking for," she mutters and opens the drawer to find, true to his word, the forks. "Come on, that wasn't that hard," he replies and smiles at her.

"Whatever." She comes over to him and lets herself fall onto the small couch that is not nearly as comfortable as the brown leather one, he has in their bullpen. When she frowns, he nods, as if reading her mind. "I know. I know."

They eat mainly in companionable silence, only every now and then talking about everything and nothing. It's only when he starts putting their plates away that she feels out of her depth and highly uncomfortable. What is she doing here? He seems to sense her swing of mood and sits back down next to her. "Hey," he says and she grins. "Hey yourself," she replies.

They settle back into an easy silence and when he takes her hand, she doesn't pull back, instead links their fingers together. "Thank you," he replies, his voice slightly husky and he doesn't look her in the eyes, instead stares at their intertwined fingers. She nods solemnly and tightens her grip on his hand. She shouldn't be thinking this, but sitting here with him, she has never seen anyone more beautiful than him, even though he is broken beyond repair.

He knows he might be pushing it but he tugs on her hand a little and really, that is all the encouragement she needs and she falls against his shoulder, her head coming to rest in the nook between his shoulder and neck. He wraps an arm around her and when she sighs slightly, he chuckles to himself. Between eating their take-out dinner and the soft smell of cinnamon and lavender soap she brings with her, he has sobered up enough to realize that this is exactly how he wants to spend his nights. Every one of them. With her in his arms, after an easy dinner, talking about stupid things.

She shifts in his arms and looks up at him, eyes hooded and clouded over with something he might describe as curiosity, if pressed. And in that exact moment he is curious as hell what kissing her would feel like. How it would feel to have her small body pressed against his, feel her skin beneath his and rake his fingers through her hair.

And because he is still the slightest bit drunk and he cannot think of one single reason why he shouldn't – or maybe he does but doesn't care – he leans down and captures her lips with his. It's nothing more than lips meeting in a chaste kiss, but it surges right through him and leaves him wanting more. When he moves back to look at her, she doesn't even let go of his lips, instead follows the movement of his head and keeps on kissing him because oh God, this is every single one of her fantasies coming true.

He grins against her lips and is suddenly taken by surprise when she slips her tongue into his mouth and then he cannot possibly find another coherent thought because she is basically crawling onto his lap and it takes every ounce of willpower in him, not to throw her around and pin her down between his body and the couch, instead he lets her set the pace.

But then again, it's not entirely fair that she gets to act out all of her fantasies while he just sits there, so he decides to gently put an arm around her waist, all the while still kissing her and rolls her around, until she is, in fact, lying on her back with his weight pleasantly pressing down on her.

He pauses in his movements to stop himself from hyperventilating. Being this close to her – finally, he might add, feels like a distant memory coming alive again right before his eyes. And he knows, since Angela's death, he has been idolizing everything about her, so if he is being completely honest with himself, this might be the very best feeling he's ever had in his entire life.

So he is careful not to make a wrong move and ruin everything right then and there. He softly brushes a strand of hair from her face and presses a soft kiss to her cheek. And even though she enjoys his little touches, now she wants nothing more than her gentleman not to be quite so gentle right now, not to think he might break her.

She smiles up at him and when his mouth touches hers again, she feels like she might faint just from the pure pleasure of it. "Patrick," she breathes against his mouth and he stops his sensual assault for a second to look at her. "Say that again," he says, his voice husky and sounding as though he'd just woken up. She looks at him, slightly confused and he nudges her nose with his lips, pressing a small kiss against it. "My name. Say it again." She grins and tries it once more. "Patrick," the two syllables gently rolling off of her tongue.

He gasps again and then he is kissing her with all that he has to offer. Which, judging by her reaction, is a lot.

:fin: