***Author's note- this is the first fan-fiction piece I have ever written, and it was inteded as a time killer post twisted ankle. I wrote this for a friend who believes it is fantastic, and I have decided to post it here for other's enjoyment. Reviews help the injured author write more! Which means faster healing! (What with the sitting and all)***
Lisbon was not amused, not in the least. She had silently been observing in the mirrored room as Jane "interrogated" their latest witness in the case, this time with a classic game of "where did the ball go?" with his delicate, robin's egg blue, teacups from the CBI lounge. He wasn't Jane-or rather he was, just not HER Jane. No, he was an unpasturized, whipped up, concoction of pre, and post amnesia Jane, not all bad but also not all good, and she was the only one noticing the salmonella in the jug of metaphorical milk.
Last week it was forging evidence, this week, returning to his old carnie schemes both with witness and family, rending hearts and minds equally without a twitch of one of his aquamarine blue eyes. She honestly didn't know how much more she could endure, and thus concluded the only thing she could do was concoct a plan to corner him and confront the bastard for all it was worth.
It wouldn't be until the following evening however, after the emotional onslaught of the search for Grace had been concluded, and the pot had yet again returned to a low boil at the CBI.
The day had been record breaking stressful in Lisbon's book, despite the fact that there was still a heaping pile of paperwork strewn in various piles across her desk, each one glaring menacingly at her, daring her to call it an early evening.
She cast her eyes to the clock, briefly noting it was 20 after 8 already, then to the largest of her drawers. Hidden within its confines was the sweet relief of a bottle of scotch, and an old shotglass. She cast a brief glance at the largest of windows within her office, while her hand delicately brushed the aluminum handle of the drawer. A soft "click" echoed in the void of silence as the handle retracted and the drawer effortlessly rolled out on its ball bearing guided hinges.
It was dark, save her office, and the small desk lamp cast a low dim light as she extracted the glass, then the bottle, giving way to the thought that she was alone tonight with only paperwork for companionship. She was regretably wrong however, and as she topped off the shotglass and wrapped her delicate fingers round it, prepared to throw it back, a voice-his voice reverberated through the silence.
"Hair of the dog?" He uttered in a silky tone, full of accusation mingled with curiousity.
Her head whipped sideways, fast enough to give anyone whiplash, to meet eye to eye with none other than Jane. Her brilliant green eyes, nearly cat like in appearance, narrowed to glare at the man casually leaning in her doorframe, one knee cocked and crossed over the other. She took in his pose in a brief sweep of her eyes, noting his folded arms and downcast chin, a slight cock to one of his eyebrows.
"How long have you- and excuse me if I-!" She stammered, her hand unconciously lowering the glass to the surface of the desk, her fingertips clenching round its girth.
"Long enough" was the reply, delivered in that same low silky tone.
"Just what are you doing here Jane? What do you want?" She snarked back at him, fingers tensing and un-tensing subconciously. Poor glass, Jane thought absentmindedly, observing the play of her fingertips as if the pressure might shatter the delicate glass any second.
"Oh, you know, saw the light, bored, figured I would walk toward it." He said, his tone grossly lathered in snark. He stared at her a moment, shifting only slightly before uttering a small sigh. "Going to drink that? Or watch it evaporate?"
"What buisness is it of yours anyway Jane?" She snarked back before throwing back the shot and her head, letting the alcohol burn away the distractions.
"I've been meaning to talk to you anyway-" she started before he could manage a reply. Her eyes cast to the bottle, she might finish that last third this evening alone she thought.
"Oh really!" Came his reply. " Here I was getting the impression I was intruding on your efforts to tackle those piles of paperwork there." He cast his glance and a gesturing arm to take in the scope of her desk. "Guess not. Well-"
"Well what Jane? Yes, I have a crap ton of paperwork, no thanks to you mind you, and a headache of equal proportion to go with it. But go ahead-" she gestured to her overstuffed couch tucked in the corner." I'll try my best to entertain you, though it seems you've been doing that quite well by yourself of late."
"What are you implying Lisbon? That I haven't been behaving?" He even air quoted "behaving" as he strode to the couch in the corner like a punished child. "Seems you're doing a poor job of it as well" He gestured to the bottle and glass before impolitely flopping down on the couch in a very unflatering manner. "Jane, don't you dare. Not after last week, not after this week. Seems as though you really haven't changed all that much from your glory days as a con artist." She smirked and grabbed the bottle forcibly, dumping its contents violently into yet another glass. She wanted a clear head, the scotch always helped to "burn the edge off a bit".
Jane starred back at her speachless, his eyes straining to fully see her in the dim lighting of the room, his expression was incredulous, and it sent Lisbon recoiling back into her chair as if distance would help her now.
"I see now." He started, his body slackening to melt into the synthetic leather of the couch, getting smaller, that mischevious light in his eye flickered and dimmed.
"See what Jane? I can't trust you! Its like, like-" she scrambled for the right words before giving way to abandon "It's like after your amnesia YOU are not you! Like a part of you never remembered, the Jane I knew wouldn't have forged evidence, wouldn't have crossed that line! I trusted him! I can't trust you!" She blurted in rapid succession, firing off the handle like a twelve year old with a gun. She breathed a heavy sigh, looking at him fully for first time since he had crossed the floor of her office and impromptly thrown himself at the mercy of her wrath.
He too had recoiled into the recesses of the couch, like her the chair, his expression that of a wounded animal awaiting the final blow, he had withdrawn into himself and all but curled up like an infant.
He blinked once, twice, then uttered "I'm sorry Lisbon. And you never asked..." He began to extricate himself from the couch almost immediatly, as if realizing he only intended to apologize, not go any further, his shoulders rolled inward and he appeared as though he might be preparing to bolt. Vulnerable indeed.
"Asked what?" She promptly threw at him, her voice softening as if to soothe him, her body lifted slightly from the office chair, angling towards the wide open door between them, their eyes both glancing towards it in unison.
"Nothing" he rushed, his voice breaking slightly, betraying his facade. He rose from his seat and made three quick, long strides toward the freedom of the door, its wide open-ness, the escape it was whispering to him, just as Lisbon swung her chair and simultaneously dove to block his escape in one graceful movement. She thrust her arms out as if to stablize the frame, her body becoming rigid as he stopped inches from her. She felt her breath hitch in her throat, and her heart palpatate in odd rythms beneath her ribs before a small whisper escaped her lips.
"Asked, what? Jane?"
Their eyes locked, each flicking back and forth within their respective sockets, looking for some betrayel of emotion or capitulation from the other.
"About after you," he sighed heavily and cast aside his glance, to study the wood grain to the immediate right of her end table.
"After you took me "home", to the house in Malibu." He briefly eye.
"Never bothered to ask, just assumed that was adequate, that it did the job." He swallowed heavily.
"What you didn't consider is that you couldn't erase the "con man" despite throwing him back into the figurative hell you made him remember."
He shifted his gaze back to meet hers, though it was brief, her eyes met his then almost immediatly fell to the floor. "I'm sorry." Was all she managed to utter before her arm was gently lifted from the door jam and he proceeded to duck under.
She watched as yet again, a now thrice broken man, walked away to the confines of his upper level room, dank and dark like the confines of his soul.
There would be another night for reconciliation, she knew there had to be.
"I'm sorry," she uttered unto the darkness, a single tear descending down her cheek.