A/N Thank you to Elena for asking for a very angsty story. Writing it helped empty some of my own angst about Jane and Lisbon. It's pretty painful at first. I hope I make it better at the end. Remember, there is no sex in this story. :)
Special thanks to all my wonderful guest reviewers. You're appreciated!
Inside, he was already dead. His blood felt like sludge, his heartbeat buried so deep he couldn't hear it anymore, much less feel it. Didn't want to hear or feel anything so painful anyway. All was quiet, numb and subsonic inside him, the outside world of no interest. Shoulders constantly on fire from tension didn't matter because he couldn't sense anything with that high of a vibration anyway. It happened somewhere . . . up there. He sat or he lay down. He didn't know which. His internal bubble level was several layers up, and he didn't care to reach.
Numbly, he understood why people cut themselves, but couldn't bring himself to do it. Too much energy. Somewhere in his body, probably his stomach, he felt hungry. But he didn't care enough to do anything about it. He shut his eyes and wondered what it would be like to be dead. What if he'd been wrong all these years and there was an afterlife and he could see Angela and Charlotte again? Maybe he could make himself believe it enough to just . . . slip away. Away from the pain. Away from the grief a mile thick and as wide as a continent. All the rest of the crap of his life just piled on top of that. What wasn't below in the reeking bog. He sighed, but didn't hear it or feel his body move the air.
Someone tall and overbearing cast a shadow over his couch.
"Get up, Jane. We've got a case."
Fischer. He slowly rose without looking at her and sat, staring at his feet.
"Get a move on." She left.
That's when it started. He didn't know if his reflexes were just caught in the molasses of his blood, if his mind was too dull to pick up the cues, if he just didn't care what happened, or if he wanted to hurry the end. Work became a series of close calls. Serious ones. Any of them could have taken his life. But didn't. He sighed again.
Why wouldn't people let him alone? Always asking if he was all right. "Meh. Never better," he would say. He didn't have to look at them to know the continued stare, the critical eye, the urge to get him to open up. Luckily, no one actually did try.
He was hospitalized three times. Once for a bullet in the shoulder. Somehow, he had stepped into the line of fire and got hit before someone could tackle him to the ground and safety. Looking down, he saw it was Lisbon gripping his legs, her red face hollering something cross that he couldn't hear because there was finally something loud enough to preoccupy him. The searing pain in his shoulder, the sight of his blood endlessly soaking his shirt, its coppery smell that finally made him vomit . . . nothing . . . before he passed out.
She'd been there, at the hospital, saying stuff, squeezing his arm. But he couldn't bear to listen. The sound of her voice hurt worse than bullets now. Something about him being skin and bones. After she'd gone, he lifted the covers on the hospital bed and noted his skinny legs. He didn't feel able to do anything about it.
He could barely eat in the hospital and the doctor said he bordered on malnourishment. They gave him liquid boosters of every kind. It made breathing not such an act of will. They brought him nutrition shakes and made him drink up in their presence. His body seemed to rejoice in sustenance. But it brought him no happiness. He let his body rejoice without him. When he got out of the hospital, his stomach withered again. He let it. Eating took too much energy, revolted his sense of inner quiet.
He had nearly stepped in front of an accelerating bus. Abbot grabbed him, yanked him to the curb and looked into his hollow eyes. "Christ, Jane! You almost killed yourself." Abbot looked past him and nodded to someone.
Lisbon stood before him. "You don't look well, Jane." Her steadying hand was on his shoulder, feeling like the touch of God. It was all he could do to keep from falling to the ground, weeping in supplication. "I'm fine," he managed to say without looking at her. Anywhere but at her.
He took three separate punches that he should have been able to feint, easily. The bruising seemed excessive for the blows. It hurt, but nothing he really needed to pay attention to. Lisbon brought him ice packs, even sat next to him to hold it on his jaw when he wouldn't bother. He looked away when she brushed his hair back and said something in a soothing voice. Finally, she made him lie down on his couch and used the blanket to prop his body at the angle she wanted to make the ice stay in place. He escaped to sleep. It wasn't as hard now that he had no energy to fight or worry it with.
A scheme went wrong and he was taken hostage by a crazed psychotic, bound to a chair and his chest ritually cut. It hurt like hell and he lost any fascination for cutting himself that lurked at the darkest edges of his curiosity. But he let it go. Maybe the guy would cut his throat next. It would hurt but it would all be over in minutes. Lisbon had broken in with the team and shot the man as he ran towards them screaming like a banshee, a long knife in each hand. She ran to him, sobbing, screamed for someone to get an ambulance, took off her jacket and pressed it over his cuts with both hands. He looked away as his chest heaved, thankful her bare hands weren't on him, driving him to utter madness. As they rolled his gurney past her, he caught Cho's concerned gaze, Lisbon sobbing in his arms, "What's the matter with him, Cho? I can't help him. He's wasting away. There's no meat on his chest, just ribs."
He had fallen down the stairwell. Just stupid, really. He'd felt light-headed. Somehow, he'd sank to his butt and slid down half the steps instead of falling forward, head over heels. He wasn't sure which he preferred. Lisbon had run to him, saying she heard the clatter and sounds of pain he didn't remember making.
"You're so skinny and weak, Jane. You could have broken your legs! Or a hip. Or killed yourself." Her voice trailed away on her last words. When he wouldn't agree to medical attention, she had held his arm to help him balance, brought him to his couch and made him some tea. It was perfectly made and felt healing as mother's milk, given from her hand.
He looked at her in gratitude. He'd forgotten her beautiful eyes, now gleaming at him with . . . something in them he couldn't identify anymore. They hurt him deep in his chest somewhere, like green daggers seeking his heart. He closed his eyes and woke to her hands on him, her voice soothing, words unknown, telling him he was dreaming, that everything was all right. Before he submerged again he felt her fingers on his cheeks, brushing something wet away.
His last hospitalization was for a flu that turned malignant. He had no defenses for it. At the end of the third day, Lisbon had found him in the Airstream, shivering and boiling, dangerously dehydrated. She forced him to take a few sips of water, then called an ambulance and rode with him. She stayed by his side as he was checked in, plunged screaming into an ice bath, his emaciated limbs long and spidery as he flailed. then was hooked up to tubes and monitors trying to feed, hydrate and medicate him back into the world he had almost left. It took three more days, during which he knew almost nothing, but it worked.
When he woke in the night, sentient for the first time in almost a week, one side of him felt warmer than the other. Lisbon was curled under the covers with him, asleep, with her head lodged into the crook of his neck, gripping his arm and her knee hooked atop his hipbone. Lifting his arm, he managed to reach her hair, filling his hand to let it trail through his fingers. Abruptly he fell asleep, his hand dropping to her chest.
Fuck! If he didn't wake up, again. What on earth for? Something stirred next to him. It shocked him to see Lisbon, still curled against him in the morning light. What flashed in his mind was as bright and as loud as a lightning bolt. Lisbon loved him! Nothing else would bring her to his bed, clinging to him in front of God and everybody. Such pleasure shot through him that he almost passed out in his weakened state. When he opened his eyes again, she was looking at him, brow furled and her lower lip quivering.
"I'm afraid, Jane."
He looked at her, his mouth thick and dry, lips chapped and peeling, eyes sunken and haunted.
"I'm afraid you're going to die."
Her concern reached a little part of him. It frightened him. What if he was wrong, and she was just worried? Poisonous, like a spirochete, it lodged somewhere deep, waiting to bring him down with unfulfilled longing, biding its time. A hope so tiny could kill him, easily. His lips moved in imitation of a small smile. "You mean I haven't yet?"
Something glittery ran down her face.
"Don't say that! It's not remotely funny. I'm serious. I'm scared to death."
"Don't be."
"Sorry, Jane. Your 'these aren't the droids you're looking for' mentalist crap won't work here.
He caressed her head, trying to soothe her. He hated when she felt bad, especially because of him. "What are you doing in my bed? Don't you know this is a hospital?" His smile was dry and sticky but it was the first real one she'd seen in months.
"You think I was going to let you alone for a minute? Let you slip away from me? What is all this about, Jane?'
"Uh. I think I got the flu?"
She poked a rigid finger between his boney ribs and pushed like she was drilling a hole.
Jane tried to skitter away from her, but was too weak and couldn't do it without falling off the bed. "Ow! Ow! Stop it Lisbon!"
She pulled her finger away and put her face a few inches from his, fury in every feature. "Don't you ever play games with me again, Patrick Jane, or I will make you wish you hadn't!"
His eyes flew wide. That was yelling! He had no doubt this bad-ass cop could make him hurt anytime she wanted to.
Lisbon poured water and gave him the cup. "Drink this. Your mouth and throat need wetting."
Emptying the cup, he gave it back to her. "Can I have some more, please?" It was his best 'Oliver' impersonation, and he watched her mouth wiggle into a smile as she refilled the cup and handed it to him.
"You're going to eat, too. Everything they bring you."
"It makes my stomach roll to think about it, Lisbon. I can't."
"You will. You'll see."
A chance to prove her words rolled in with the meal cart. He was on soft, nutrition-concentrated foods, including a can of Ensure.
"That's for old people," he said, pointing at the can.
"It'll taste good. You'll see. Or, you'll pretend it does. One or the other."
"But—"
She unwrapped the gelatin cup, picked up a spoon and, when he didn't take it quickly, dug a spoonful out and held it to his mouth. "Cherry."
His eyes darted to her smiling face and warm eyes. "That's my favorite."
"I know. I made sure we have some things you like on here. Open your mouth."
Obeying, he opened wide and let her tip the Jello onto his tongue, then closed his lips gently as she pulled the spoon through them. Such a burst of flavor, sweet and tart! It made his mouth water as it dissolved and he quickly opened for more. They finished in no time.
Lisbon smiled at him, empty Jello cup in her hand. "You need me."
"I've always needed you."
"Yes. But I didn't realize you would die without me. Why didn't you tell me you loved me so much? I mean, that way, that you'd die without me? You should have. It's hard to forgive you for that."
"You didn't need me. Besides, you'd already left me, Lisbon. You could barely stand the sight of me, thinking I would either run or try to take over your life. And then . . . you had Pike. When you were completely gone, nothing mattered anymore." He cocked his head and looked at her, puzzled. "You would have believed such a tawdry line?"
"Coming from you? Of course! You'd never say such a thing unless you had to or die. And it's the only thing I've wanted to hear from you for years. I guess you chose death, you jackass. I was never completely gone. I just kind of gave up waiting on you and tried to move on, have a chance to enjoy life, somehow. Anyway, Pike was over months ago."
Months? Had months passed? "Over?"
"Yes. You were so out of it . . . so withdrawn. I thought you were unforgivably angry at me, you couldn't stand the sight of me. You would hardly look at me, much less talk. I felt so ashamed to be involved in a . . . dalliance . . . that could be so destructive. I didn't blame you. Jane, you were wasting away, making deadly mistakes and all the time insisting you were fine and needed no one talk to or help you. It was the most frightening time of my life."
"I was lost inside myself, Lisbon. Down so low, I didn't even want to get up. I didn't know how."
"I need you, Jane. I love you, too. Just as much as you love me. Okay?" Lifting the lid from his plate, she looked at him expectantly. "What next?"
"Oh." He looked grimly at the plate. It had a few items on it, all very small servings. "Mashed potatoes."
Lisbon started spooning it to him. "Mmmmmm. They're real!"
And so, they got through the rest of the meal until Jane had cleaned his plate.
He smiled at her, a bit sheepish. "Okay. If you love me that much, as much as I love you . . . it's, it's boundless . . . and glorious. And hot, Teresa." He looked at her, a mild pink flushing his face.
"Well, Patrick. I'd say you'd better put some meat on your bones because I'm going to wear you out!"
His reddening face was still as he stared at her, then got a little more serious as he looked at his tray. "What flavor is that?" He pointed at the Ensure.
"Vanilla."
"Oh." He smiled at Lisbon. "I like vanilla."
"I know."
He took a big sip, letting it roll across his tongue and down his throat. "Mmmmmmm. This is good!"
Lisbon's smile was hugely smug as she watched him gulp down the rest of the small can. Whether it was good or not, Jane had the rules down pat now, and her power with him was actually thrilling. What was it Jane had always said? Love and affection. That's all that she wanted, all that he needed from her. This would be boundless and glorious and hot, indeed!
She dug in the large bag she'd brought.
"You aren't leaving . . . ?"
"No. I will not leave you again. Not until you're safe, and we're together in our new place. And then it won't be leaving because we'll be married and so in love that no one will be leaving anybody." She looked up at him. "Clear?"
His broad smile nearly swept her breath away.
"Clear, Patrick?"
"Yes! Clear."
"Good, then." She brought out an electric kettle, a tin of tea and two mugs, which she set on the night table. She laid a nightie and robe on the chair back and a toiletry bag on the seat. "I'll use your shower while I'm here." She filled the kettle with two bottles of water and plugged it in, hung teabags in the mugs and climbed back in bed with him. "I want to hear the wor—"
He swept her into a tight embrace. "I love you, Teresa. Everything in me. 'Til I die." Then he brushed her lips as a question.
"I love you. I always have and I always will." When she moved her lips on his, they moaned together and shared a long, tender kiss and, a few minutes later, a kettle of tea.