AN: Warnings for language.
Prompt #111: Red John wins
The world halts its rotation, then begins spinning in the opposite direction.
Lisbon focuses on breathing. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. It's the only thing she can control right now.
And she loathes the feeling.
She gathers the photographs of the suspects and begins tearing them to shreds. Jane sends her an amused glance, but he quickly returns his attention to staring broodingly out the window.
When the photographs resemble little more than ticker tape, Lisbon stands. She sways, still adjusting to the earth's new spin, still regaining her equilibrium, and she has to reach out to the table to steady herself.
Jane sighs and walks out to the roof.
Lisbon closes her eyes, finds this is worse, and immediately opens them again. She's nauseated, as though Red John's mere revelation has the power to poison her physically.
How?
how how how how how how how
The same thought, over and over, a broken record with no hope of being repaired.
How could he have known?
Jane had met and shaken hands with 2164 people since his family had been murdered. He'd narrowed that list down to seven names.
How could Red John know those seven names?
Jane hasn't even told me the list of names.
Lisbon reaches for her cross.
And the happy memory Red John had killed -
How?
How the hell had he done that?
Lisbon forces air into her ribcage, forces herself to think rationally.
Eliminate the impossible.
Well, possibility number one is that Red John is psychic. Lisbon herself had briefly entertained the idea - it had been all too easy to want to believe in some otherworldly explanation when nothing of this world quite made sense and Barlow was manipulating her emotions by telling Jane how she felt about him. But though Lisbon believes in certain things that can't be explained, she's been around Jane long enough to know that psychics aren't one of them, and she has to rule out this possibility.
So what remains? That's the truth.
Lisbon turns and leans back against the desk, folding her arms across her chest. Her shadow cuts through the sun streaming from the window.
Jane is adamant that he's told no one about his list or happy memory.
And Red John isn't psychic.
Clouds cover the sun, and Lisbon's phone rings. She answers. "Lisbon."
Her veins suddenly feel as though they are carrying liquid nitrogen rather than blood. As it travels through her system, it freezes everything it touches. Her heart resists the longest, but soon it too succumbs.
Jane walks back in as she's ending the call, and everything fractures, frozen shards flying in all directions. Lisbon grips the phone with white knuckles.
"Lisbon - " Jane begins, brow knit in concern. He steps toward her.
She steps back.
"Your alibi fell apart," she whispers.
He drops his hands to his sides weakly. "My what?"
"Your alibi," repeats Lisbon firmly, though she's sure he heard her the first time.
"For what?" he asks, bewildered.
Lisbon crosses her arms over her chest again to hide the way they're shaking.
"For the murder of your wife and child."
He just gapes at her, a man drowning and gasping for air but all that fills his lungs is water.
She looks up at the ceiling. "God, Jane, tell me you didn't do it. Please, convince me it wasn't you."
He's still silent.
She's finally surprised him - what a time to be alive.
After several long seconds, he sputters, "It was a live taping! There were five hundred people in the audience alone and thousands more who watched it on television. Goddamnit, Lisbon, alibis don't get much more airtight than that!"
She blinks twice. "Couldn't have had a better one unless you'd planned it," she agrees, letting her tone speak for itself.
"Lisbon - "
"One of your neighbors reported seeing your Citroen pass their home an hour before they heard the sirens indicating you'd called the police. What were you doing for that hour, Jane? The original police report said you dialed 911 as soon as you found the bodies." She still can't look at him. "What happened in that hour?"
"Lisbon, for fuck's sake - "
"Answer me, Jane," she hisses, and her hand moves to her gun.
"I held her." His words fall as fast as his tears. "I held Angela. And I stared at the mark on the wall." He moves to reach out to Lisbon but seems to reconsider, so he restrains himself. "I thought I made the call soon after - shouldn't...shouldn't the postmortem interval confirm that?"
"Not if you fucked with the temperature of the house," says Lisbon, and she didn't think it was possible to break more than she already is, but she nearly does as she watches him cry. But she can't break. Not more. So she doesn't.
"I...I was in sh-shock." He's stuttering and gasping for breath. "It could have been one minute or one hour. Time didn't feel real; nothing felt real." He holds his hands in front of him, palms forward, submissive. "Lisbon," he begs. "I don't care if anyone else believes me. But I need you to."
The hand on her holster wraps more securely around the gun.
"Red John killed your happy memory. He knew the seven suspects." She gives him a hard, blazing look. "You're right that he's not psychic. I think you're also right that it was a neat trick. And one that I fell for - hook, line, and sinker."
"Lisbon - please." He's pleading, begging.
But she's not convinced.
"Teresa."
She shakes her head. "I never could tell when you were lying to me. I could guess, but I never knew for sure. But I never thought you'd be lying about this."
She's never seen him so emotional - with splotches of pink marring his face where his blood has rushed and a stream of tears marring the pink. "I didn't."
"How would I know?" she breathes. "Jane, you've spent the last decade using me to get what you want. How is it that much of a leap?"
"I'm not Red John!"
"Wainwright said you're a psychopath. Maybe I should have listened."
"Lisbon, you're the only family I have left. You're - you're the only thing that means anything to me anymore."
She can't help but laugh at this. "That's a blatant lie, whether you're Red John or not."
He has the tact to look ashamed, but only for a second.
"What can I do?" he implores. "What do you need to convince you?"
She tosses him a pair of handcuffs. "Cooperate," she orders immediately, and he fumbles with the cuffs for a few seconds before steadying them.
"You don't have probable cause for an arrest."
"No," she agrees. "But an innocent man wouldn't have anything to lose by agreeing to a couple days in holding to allow us to check his story."
Two pairs of green eyes hold each other. Then Jane finally relents.
She winces as he closes the cuffs around his wrists.
The next day, it's nearing midnight when she ventures down to holding. Despite the hour, he's not sleeping.
"Lisbon?" he whispers through the half-light, the soundwaves making their way through the bars. He'd recognized her by the sound of her footsteps alone.
She rounds the corner and steps into view. "You don't have an alibi for the night before last, do you?"
He sits up. Shadows obscure the left half of his face; the right is pallid, sallow.
"No," he admits. He stands, takes a step toward her. "You found a body." It's not a question; he knows.
Lisbon nods. "We got skin cells from under one of her fingernails."
"My DNA?"
She just nods again.
He reaches through the bars to touch her, and she lets him. This seems to surprise him. "Lisbon, it wasn't me."
"I know," she says immediately.
He blinks once. "You know?"
She drops her voice. "It's too convenient. A witness comes forward ten years after your wife and daughter were murdered with evidence against you. And now, after years of leaving no trace, Red John gives us his DNA? He makes his first mistake?" She shakes her head. "He's framing you."
Jane grabs the bars with both hands; Lisbon thinks he might need the support to keep himself upright.
"You believe me?"
She wraps a hand around one of his. "For better or for worse," she murmurs. A door slams somewhere on one of the floors above them, and she starts. He moves his other hand to cover hers. "Look, we don't have a lot of time - certainly not enough to talk this through. Right now, I gotta get you out of here."
She grabs a set of keys and makes to open the cell.
"Lisbon," Jane hisses. "They'll fire you."
She swings the door open as she fires back, "They'll put you on death row. The system's broken, Jane. Your DNA may have been planted there, or maybe the forensics was altered, but I won't be able to prove that." She reaches for her handcuffs. "When they found the DNA, they as good as put the needle in your arm."
"Lisbon - "
She doesn't let him argue with her, choosing instead to force his hands behind his back and cuff him. "If we run into anyone, the story is I'm transferring you to the state prison."
Jane tries once more. "Teresa."
"Damn it, Jane, for once do what I tell you and shut the hell up."
And she pushes him forward roughly.
She knows the maze of the CBI, its twists and turns, as intricately as Jane knows his memory palace. She could navigate it in the dark.
So she does.
Lisbon sticks to the corridors with the least light, the hallways with the most shadows. Jane trips every so often, but she holds him steady, though this becomes more difficult when he begins to shake. She's seen more emotion out of him in the last two days than the last two years, and it's disarming - now that the game is seemingly over, is he allowed to feel? To show weakness? She prays he'll keep it together at least until they reach the parking lot.
Miraculously, he does, and the night air is cool enough to raise gooseflesh on her skin. Lisbon wastes no time in dragging Jane over to her SUV, where she shoves him in the backseat. She starts the ignition, not bothering to even buckle herself in, and peels out of her parking spot before exiting the lot.
"There's a key on your seat," she says, and she watches the rearview mirror out of the corner of her eye to track his progress. After several awkward movements, he locates it, and it takes him mere seconds to free himself.
"We need to stop by my room," says Jane. "I have documents and cash waiting - we won't stand a chance without them."
Lisbon tosses another pair of keys over her shoulder, smirking. "Way ahead of you."
Jane shoots her a bewildered look as he catches the keys to a nondescript, beater car. "This was hidden in a bag of tea leaves."
"I searched your room."
He's more impressed than bewildered now. "Very thoroughly, apparently. Nicely done."
"Cash and documents are in the car. I assume it's not registered to you?"
He shakes his head. "I didn't register it at all."
"Good. I parked it a few miles from your motel - didn't want to risk anyone finding us there."
"I could kiss you right now."
She ignores this. "I emptied as much of my bank account as I could without risking drawing attention to myself. That should buy us some time, too."
"We just have to make it until I can access my offshore accounts. We'll be fine." He pauses as she takes a turn just a bit too quickly. "You found the passports? All of them?"
Her eyes meet his in the rearview mirror.
"Why'd you think I finally believed you?"
Jane looks down, letting out a huff of air. "Kind of difficult to continue thinking I was Red John when I'd made deliberate plans to take you with me when I made my escape."
She smirks at him. "That was kind of my thought process, yeah."
He does kiss her at this, leaning forward to brush his lips to the angle of her jaw, just below her ear.
"Thank you," he breathes against her neck.
They change cars on the outskirts of the city. Knowing searches will be directed south when Jane is discovered missing in the morning, Lisbon suggests they head east, and Jane offers to drive the first shift.
As they make their way through El Dorado National Forest, Lisbon speaks for the first time since they'd switched cars. "We can't go back." She looks over at him, watches his eyes in the eerie light from the dashboard. "Ever."
"No," he confirms. "We can't."
She swallows. "So where are we going?"
"There's an island we'll start with that I think you might like. We can move around after that."
"It's over, then? It's done?"
She feels hungover, feverish, and jetlagged all at once.
"Yes."
She hesitates. "He won?"
It takes Jane about a minute to get the word out. "Yes."
Lisbon closes her eyes and leans her head against the headrest, fighting a wave of nausea. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "I'm so sorry."
His life - his entire reason for being alive - gone.
"I thought we'd get him. I thought we would," she adds.
"We were close," Jane finally manages, the words tight, clipped.
"I'm so sorry," Lisbon says again, eyes still closed.
Eventually, she turns her head to look at him, trying not to upset the fragile equilibrium.
"Are you all right?"
He just sighs. "It doesn't feel real," he admits. "So right now, yes, I'm fine. I imagine I'll be in a much darker place in a few days' time." He glances at her. "You?"
Lisbon isn't sure there are words to respond.
She'd just broken Jane out of holding, thrown away her job - her life - and, most monumentally, ceded a decade's long battle.
The nausea returns in full force.
"Pull over," Lisbon whispers, and Jane takes one look at her before steering the car to the side of the deserted highway.
She opens the door but doesn't even make it out of her seat before she vomits onto the ground. The acid singes her throat, but she can't stop, and soon she is dry heaving as Jane holds back her hair.
She hadn't even noticed him move. But now he's half kneeling in her seat, one steadying arm at her shoulder, and he hands her his handkerchief. "We'll stop at the next convenience store and get you some water," he murmurs, and his hand drops to her back, a welcome weight.
She leans into him and closes her eyes.
"I'm sorry," she whispers again.
He just reaches past her to close her door, then he pulls the car back onto the road.
As dawn looms, Jane unlocks the door to a motel room scarcely larger than Lisbon's closet. He guides her in, watching her closely - she discovers why after taking a glance in the bathroom mirror.
She looks only slightly more corporeal than a ghost.
Jane appears at her shoulder in the mirror. He meets her eyes for a fraction of a second, then he sets a toothbrush and toothpaste on the counter before stepping away.
Lisbon washes her mouth and brushes her teeth while Jane secures the blinds and the lock on the door. Then she climbs into the sole bed, pulling the likely sordid covers over her body.
She barely registers Jane come to lie on top of the sheets beside her before she sinks into oblivion.
"Lisbon."
She blinks at the sallow light from the lamp then tenses, ready to react.
Jane lays a hand on her shoulder. "It's just me, Lisbon."
She sinks back into her pillow.
"Here," says Jane, offering her a can of soda and a handful of saltine crackers. "You should get something in your stomach."
Lisbon sits up groggily and rests her back against the headboard of the bed. "Where are we?" she asks. "When are we?"
Jane opens the soda and places it in her hand. "Somewhere in Nevada. Dusk will fall in another half hour, so we should get going soon." He nudges her. "Drink."
She obeys, surprised when her stomach immediately begins to settle after a sip of ginger ale. She takes a cracker and begins nibbling. "How did you know to get these?"
Jane sits on the side of the bed, and the mattress sinks. He looks away. "I got them for Angela during her first trimester."
"Oh," is all Lisbon can manage as she feels some invisible force squeeze her heart, wringing it out roughly.
Jane reaches behind him, clearly eager to change the subject. He grabs a duffle bag stuffed to capacity. "I didn't prepare much," he begins as he opens the bag. "But I at least had the foresight to purchase some clothing in advance."
Lisbon has to disagree with him here; contrary to his words, she knows he must have put a great deal of forethought into their escape, and she's struck again by the magnitude of the gesture he's made by making preparations for her to accompany him. She doesn't say this, however, instead beginning to rifle through the bag with her free hand. She pulls out a mauve brassiere and raises an eyebrow at him. "Do I want to know how you know my size?"
She's delighted when he blushes, the rouge apparent even in the flickering light from the only lamp in the room.
"Any one of those explanations is going to get me in trouble," he murmurs.
She snorts in laughter and returns her attention to the duffle bag. Jane had apparently spent a small fortune on underwear for her, though he'd clearly spent less on the clothes that would be outwardly visible. She ponders this for a few seconds and realizes eventually that the scruffy jeans and t-shirts will work to their advantage, helping them blend in. The bras and thongs clearly were an indulgence for him, a peace offering for her.
"Lisbon," says Jane again, this time more hesitantly.
She meets his gaze. Finally.
"You saw the passports."
"Yes," she confirms.
"So you know the cover I have planned for us."
She nods. "It's logical," she agrees. "We'll attract less attention as a couple."
He looks heartbroken, and she wishes she knew exactly what he was thinking. "When we leave this room, we have to sell this story," he says, his eyes dark.
"I know."
He looks down, and so does she, and she watches as he digs in the duffle bag for a small box. He hides the contents until the last second, when he takes her left hand and slides two rings onto her fourth finger.
One is a simple wedding band, the other an engagement ring with a small emerald as its center and a halo of tiny diamonds around it.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, and Lisbon realizes that though the rings themselves are real, the union they signify certainly isn't. She wonders if she and Jane will spend their entire lives from now on apologizing to each other. "I wanted better for you."
She could say so many things. You are what I want. Or They're lovely; thank you. Even Everything will work out, Jane; I promise. All of them are true, after all. But there's a disconnect between her brain and her vocal chords, and all she can manage is to wipe away the lone tear that falls from her eye.
Jane pretends not to notice, and Lisbon reaches for some new clothes and heads to the shower.
But thirty minutes later, as she's reaching for the doorknob, he reaches around her to place his palm on the door, preventing her from opening it. Lisbon looks over her shoulder.
"Jane?"
He places his other hand on her hip, hooking a finger through one of the belt loops on her jeans and guiding her to turn around.. The look in his eyes makes her glad for the solid door behind her keeping her upright.
He kisses her.
Her eyelids flutter shut on instinct, her hand lands over his heart. Every atom, every cell in her being quivers at his touch. It's tender. Tentative.
Tantalizing.
God damn it - did he have to be good at absolutely everything?
And then it's over as suddenly as it began, and Jane is staring at her lips with an expression she'd give her soul to be able to read.
"I wanted the first one to be real," he murmurs, and as his lips move, they brush against hers.
This time, she doesn't bother wiping away her tears.
Jane offers to drive the first shift, and as he starts the ignition it occurs to Lisbon that they've agreed to an arranged marriage.
He cares for her; there's no doubting that. But he doesn't love her - he's not in love with her. If he was, his anguish - his agony - wouldn't have been written all over his face when he slid the wedding band on her finger.
If he was in love with her, he would have told her.
Especially after hearing from Barlow that she is in love with him.
Lisbon stares determinedly out the window as they pass some landmarks that are now more ghost than town: empty shops with doors open and sand blowing through, billboards graffitied with profanity, and a crumbling gas station with a sign leaning so precariously Lisbon worries it will crash onto their car as they pass underneath it.
"You don't have to stay with me, you know."
Lisbon looks over at him. "What?"
He grips the steering wheel with unnecessary force. "Once we cross the border, I can get you access to my accounts; I can get you situated. I'll make sure you're well-off. You don't have to go where I go."
Stupid, insecure man.
Lisbon grabs his right hand with her left. He drives one-handed as she pulls his hand into her lap.
He doesn't love her, but he cares for her. Their marriage, arranged though it may be, is her only choice. There is no other.
"You can't get rid of me that easy," Lisbon says, and just like that, she's committed herself to a half-life.
And she has no regrets.
It takes them hours to bypass Vegas through back roads, not wanting to risk being caught on security cameras of larger interstates. Their caution means slow progress, and they race against the sun to reach Phoenix. They barely make it. Lisbon pulls into the parking lot of a shady motel north of the city just as the first rays of sun shoot across the horizon.
The mattress is nearly as comfortable as she suspects the floor would be, but sleep embraces her in seconds.
They remain in Phoenix perhaps too long, debating their next steps.
"I could reach out," Jane hedges. "Make some calls. We could avoid the ports."
"How safe would it be?"
"Not nearly enough," he admits, and he leans his back against the headboard, his head against the wall. "And it would take a while to arrange."
Lisbon turns to look at him from her pillow.
"ICE cares more about people coming in than going out," Lisbon says. Jane's hand tangles in her hair, massaging her scalp; she thinks he doesn't realize what he's doing. "We have Canadian passports. They might not even look twice at us."
"We'll be more likely to be recognized if we travel together," he points out. "And if we get separated…"
"We don't have a way to get in contact with each other," finishes Lisbon. Her sigh is shaky. "Jane…"
"I know," he murmurs.
She reaches up, tugging on his arm to pull him down to her. He complies and rests his head on her pillow.
"One of your suspects is FBI," Lisbon whispers. "Another is Homeland Security. Red John could be either of them. Hell, he could be all of them. And he wants you put on death row. I think...we have to assume we'll be stopped at the border."
Jane nods. "Let's stay here for a few days while I arrange...things." He brushes her hair behind her shoulder. "We could use some time out of the car anyway."
She stares at the oceans in his eyes.
Minutes pass.
"Jane, just...just tell me we're going to be okay."
He squeezes her hand then pulls away. "I need to make a call."
Lisbon buries her face in her pillow.
"It's a solid plan."
Days later, his words float through darkness an hour after midnight, shattering silence. He's only a foot away on the other side of the bed, but to Lisbon it's as though they're an ocean apart. She's not facing him, and she's fairly certain his back is to her, too.
"I know."
"So stop worrying."
She sighs. "I'll stop if you do."
She hears him shift, the mattress dipping as he rolls over. She can feel his heat. He doesn't respond.
"I'm scared," she whispers.
"So am I."
He shifts closer, and though she doesn't dare look, she thinks he's propped himself on one elbow to look down at her.
"I want normal," Lisbon admits. "I want to be able to walk outside without looking over my shoulder, without being terrified that I'll have to run. I want to spend a day in bed for the hell of it. I want to talk to you about life and travel and jazz music, and I...I just…"
"We're almost there." His voice is soothing. "Just hang on."
The quiet returns, but it's almost too much, and Jane must feel it, too.
"I could hypnotize you," he murmurs. "Take you under before we cross, wake you once we're in Mexico."
She scoffs at this. "Like I'd leave you in charge during the most dangerous hours of our lives."
He chuckles. "I had a feeling you'd say that."
Lisbon sighs then rolls toward him. "I want you to take me under now, though," she whispers.
He raises an eyebrow. "Now that I didn't expect."
"I need to sleep," Lisbon explains. "I need to be sharp."
Jane settles back against his pillow, eyes never leaving hers. She vaguely registers the pad of his thumb brush forward, back, forward, back on the side of her arm as he begins to murmur to her.
His warm words envelop her, and she slips under.
The burner phone dings once around four o'clock the next afternoon. Jane and Lisbon turn, in sync, toward the bedside table where it lies, and Jane immediately reaches over Lisbon to grab it, settling back against the pillows. Lisbon mutes the television.
Jane looks up at her. "Tonight," he says. "Let's be ready to leave at sundown."
Despite the oppressive heat of the summer day, Lisbon feels a cutting cold, bleak and bitter.
She just nods.
She feels her soul leaves her body on the three hour drive to Nogales; it's as though she and Jane pass through a dark veil, everything beyond strange and sad and not quite real.
Which is good - because the crossing is horrific enough this way.
Sometime later - she's not exactly sure what time it is, and for some reason she can't remember if the orb in the sky was the sun or the moon when they arrived at their motel - she wakes up screaming, and Jane immediately covers her mouth with his hand. She doesn't process this quickly enough, however, and she bites into his palm. He swears, and the sound of his voice is what ultimately brings her back.
He flicks on a light, and Lisbon hears running water.
She rolls over toward the sound, squinting through the brightness. "Jane?"
He doesn't answer.
Her eyes finally focus, and she takes him in: he's leaning over the sink, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, his hand under the running faucet.
"Jane, I'm so sorry - "
He shakes his head. "Don't be. I shouldn't have tried to touch you."
She slips from the bed, vaguely registering that she's wearing Jane's t-shirt. She doesn't remember putting it on.
She comes to stand at his shoulder. "How bad is it?"
"It's not deep," he murmurs.
Lisbon watches the sink become stained in red. "That's a lot of blood."
"Says the homicide detective."
She leans her forehead against his shoulder. "First of all, not anymore. And second, it's different when it's your blood, Jane."
He chuckles. "I'm fine, Lisbon." He shuts off the faucet. "Look, the bleeding has mostly stopped." He places a finger under her chin, directs her gaze to his hand. He flips over his palm and reveals a crescent-shaped scar. "Kind of kinky."
She can't help laughing at this, and for the first time in a long time she doesn't feel hollow.
Jane wraps his hand in a towel. "Let's get some sleep," he breathes. "Tomorrow will be kinder."
"Promise?" She hates the way she sounds like a small child.
He gives her a half smile.
"I promise."
She wakes an indeterminate amount of time later. The room is dark, but charcoal clouds outside obscure the time of day. Lightning pulses across the sky. Water drips into the room from a leak near the door.
Lisbon's vision focuses, and she finds herself staring at Jane, who is reclining in the sole chair. He stares out the window, clearly tracking the storm, and the flash from the next lightning bolt reflects in his eyes.
Lisbon shifts, and so does Jane. "Hey," he says, standing up and moving to turn on the nearest lamp.
"Hi," Lisbon croaks. Her eyes immediately move to his hand. There's fresh gauze wrapped around his palm, and Lisbon's brow furrows. "You went out?"
He sits on the mattress near her hip. "I had some errands to run."
She raises an eyebrow.
"A trip to the pharmacy and the nearby casino." He glances at the duffle bag, and Lisbon can just make out several wads of cash in the dim light. "We were running low after paying the smugglers to get us across."
"Jane, that was reckless. You'll have been caught on security cameras - "
"We have a few hours, at least, until we should get moving. And even if they find us, they can't extradite us here, Lisbon."
She scrubs a hand over her face, closing her eyes. "We need to purchase a car."
She feels him brush a fingertip to her cheek. "Why do you think I went to the casino?"
"You've got a car already?" Her eyes open wide. "Jane, have you slept at all?"
"Some," he admits.
She rolls her eyes. Then she reaches in his pocket for the keys. "I'm driving first," she says.
He gives her a mock salute. "Yes, ma'am."
It turns out to be precisely noon when they pull out of the motel parking lot. The storm has only intensified, however, and the sky looks hellish.
"We should try to get back on a normal schedule," suggests Lisbon. "It's less imperative now that we travel at night."
There's a beat of silence before Jane says, "You worry about me too much."
"I worry about you just enough," Lisbon responds, glancing at him. She returns her attention to the road. "Depression is more common in people who work night shift than those who work during the day." Her tone is gentle yet firm. "If we keep this crazy schedule…"
"Okay," he agrees. "Say no more."
She has a feeling he's agreed more for her benefit than his own, but she's satisfied, and they drive the next few hours in silence.
Eventually, they stop for fuel and food. It's still downpouring, but the air is warm. Lisbon stands outside the car as the gas tank fills, shielded from the rain by an overhang but gazing off into it. Across the muddy street, three young boys are playing a pickup game of soccer. She watches as one of them steals the ball by sliding through the mud.
Warm hands slip around her, and Jane's tongue slips into her mouth. By now, Lisbon only starts minimally at the still unfamiliar - though not unwelcome - sensation. She's almost grown used to Jane's wandering hands and lips as he plays his role and she plays hers. But her heart still trembles at his proximity.
If she's being honest with herself, she's still trying to wrap her mind around a demonstrative Jane. She supposes he was physically affectionate with Angela; with Lisbon, however, touch had always been saved for rare occasions. She can count on one hand the number of hugs they'd exchanged before they'd gone on the lam, and she's under no delusions that many of the other times he'd touched her he'd been trying to manipulate her.
But now…
Now there's absolutely no motive for manipulation.
In fact, she'd put money on the fact that Jane kisses her simply to cheer her up, as she's noticed his kisses and caresses seem to increase with frequency when she's feeling particularly melancholy.
She's not complaining.
The fuel tank has long been filled by the time Jane eventually pulls away, nipping at Lisbon's lower lip.
"What was that for?" asks Lisbon, especially breathless.
"I want you to be happy," Jane murmurs. Even as he says this, his eyes become sad.
Oh, the sweet irony.
Because every time he kisses her, she tastes his grief, his pain, his struggle. She's not Angela - she will never be - and she knows he breaks a little more each time he realizes the woman in his arms isn't the woman he wants.
His guilt isn't only going to consume him - it will consume Lisbon as well.
But she rocks forward on her toes to return his kiss.
She wakes a few hours before dawn to a deafening quiet. Jane's almost-snores are absent, so she knows immediately he's not asleep. She's just about to say something when she feels the mattress shake slightly. A fraction of a second later, she realizes Jane's body is the source of the tremors.
By sheer intuition, she knows he's crying.
Lisbon rolls over delicately, careful not to startle him, and lays her hand on his upper arm. His back is to her, and though he doesn't roll over, he links a hand with hers, squeezing her fingers.
Lisbon squeezes back.
His depression worsens with every passing mile.
He tries to hide it from her, but she knows him too well by now. And she'd been expecting it, in a way, wondering if a defeat at the hands of Red John would feel like losing his family all over again.
It's been three weeks since they made it past the border. They're now in South America, nearing the end of their journey, and Lisbon had suggested turning in early for the night. They will drive the rest of the way tomorrow, and she wants to watch the sunset on the beach.
They're alone on the vast sand, bathed in coppery orange beams from the dying sun. Jane's been particularly quiet today. This is okay with Lisbon, as what she's planned doesn't require much talking.
She initiates a kiss for the first time, and his response is almost desperate in the way he clings to her. His tongue brushes the roof of her mouth, causing her eyes to roll back.
They lose track of time as they explore each other, falling somehow deeper than they were before, and eventually Lisbon shivers. She blinks at the darkened sky, wondering how long exactly she'd been lost in him.
She leans back in, and this time she tastes his tears.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, kissing her fiercely.
"What for?"
He doesn't seem to want to break the kiss. "I want you to be happy," he says between kisses, echoing his words from earlier. "That's all I want."
She'll certainly allow him to continue trailing open-mouthed kisses across her neck if he wants. "But do you want - "
She cuts herself off.
He stills, his lips still on her skin. "Do I want what?"
Lisbon breathes deeply. "To be here. With me. Alive." Her hands grab a fistful of his shirt. "Would it...would it have been less painful for you if I hadn't broken you out? If we hadn't escaped?"
"Undoubtedly," he says without hesitation.
"You're not - " Lisbon has to focus for several seconds before she manages to get the words out. "You're not going to get me to Venezuela only to - "
He silences her with another kiss. "You misunderstand me," he murmurs. "It would have been less painful, yes. But never in a thousand lifetimes would I have chosen to remain there instead of being here with you now."
The salt of the sea stings her eyes, and Lisbon blinks. "I want you to be happy, too," she says weakly.
His smile is too small, too sad, but it doesn't much matter because soon his lips are on hers again.
"Do you want children?" he asks.
It's their first night in their bed, in their room. The small studio apartment is bare, but in some strange way it feels more like a home to Lisbon than her condo in Sacramento ever did.
Her eyes flash open, and she looks over her shoulder at him.
He's turned toward her, his jaw tense, his eyes intense.
"I don't know," Lisbon whispers. "Why?"
"I've been watching you," Jane murmurs. "You're more sad here than you were in California, but you're most sad whenever you see a small child. Or a baby."
She hadn't even noticed this, but she's not surprised he had.
Lisbon sighs. "I suppose it was always in the back of my mind," she admits. "You know, someday maybe I'd start a family." She shrugs. "I knew it was more of a pipe dream than anything."
He breathes in unsteadily.
"It doesn't have to be."
Her heart stops beating. "What?"
"We could…" He clears his throat. "I could..." He can't hold her gaze. "I want to make you happy."
The implication is clear.
"I took so much from you," he continues. "If I could give you back even a fraction of what I owe you…"
When her silence stretches on too long, Jane reaches over, trails a finger down the side of her breast, the side of her chest.
She doesn't stop him.
Their arrangement finally consummated, he settles her against him, her back against his front. One arm wraps around her torso; the other splays over the bare skin of her stomach.
"Are you happy?" he sighs.
"Yes," she lies.