Title: This is Not Your Grave
Rating/Warnings: I'd say FRM (M), but correct me if I'm wrong. Kind of dark. Kind of really freaking dark, actually. Angst, H/C, slight gunplay. You have been warned.
Summary: Lisbon exacts a little revenge of the scaring-Jane-shitless variety. Jane POV. Set directly after Code Red 2x16, and includes spoilers for that episode (essentially an episode tag).
A/N: This was a Gift!Fic challenge from aprilvolition, over on LJ. Extra special hugs to oroburos69 for betaing.
...
"Oh come on," Jane offered lightly, "you can't tell me you didn't enjoy the rush." He threw in a genial chuckle for good measure, but it fell flat—more like crashed and burned. Lisbon didn't even acknowledge him.
Her silence roughly translated to 'go screw yourself,' but, all things considered, Jane figured it could be worse. His nose only ached a little. She'd obviously held back, so she couldn't completely hate him. And less-than-complete hatred was halfway to affection by his estimation.
The Zitek case had been an astounding success. Alicia Seberg's killer was apprehended, no one else was hurt, and Jane's plan had unfolded as only a perfectly executed scheme of his could. He'd as good as gift wrapped the case for them. And, okay, maybe he'd gone a little far by making Lisbon—and a couple dozen other people—think they were all going to die, but it worked out in the end.
Jane glanced at Lisbon as she drove, noting the correlation between her tense posture and the speedometer's steady ascent, and decided it may not be in his best interest to bring up his interpretation of the case right now.
He hummed to himself for a while. The boredom was killing him. Slowly.
"Mind if I turn this on?" Jane asked, not waiting for an answer before reaching over to the radio dial. Static-laced music filled the car, slightly too loud and regrettably jarring, only to stop abruptly when Lisbon turned it back off. "No music, then? Okay..." he muttered. She was awfully touchy tonight.
Jane sighed loudly. A wisp of apprehension began twisting in his stomach, quite unexpectedly, but he couldn't pinpoint its source.
He was about to suggest a rousing game of I-Spy before realizing that he couldn't really spy much of anything beyond the shadowed trees rushing by his window.
Jane glanced at his watch, finding himself unable to make it out clearly in the dark. His gaze settled on the flashing dashboard clock. Only ten minutes had passed since they started driving. The Zitek facility wasn't far from CBI headquarters...and he was pretty sure they hadn't driven through any side roads to get there.
No streetlights. That's what seemed off. They'd strayed from the main road and he hadn't even noticed.
He turned in his seat to get a better view from his window, but still didn't recognise the surroundings.
"Um...Lisbon?" Jane started, hesitant.
"You just don't get it, do you?" Lisbon whispered, her fingers wrapped firmly around the steering wheel and her eyes locked on the dark road ahead of them.
Jane recognized the tone. Restrained anger, tinged with defeat. Not unusual. Only now there seemed to be less anger and more defeat, which he found strangely disconcerting. She was more upset with him than anticipated.
He jerked forward as she slammed on the brakes and his seatbelt snapped him roughly back into place.
Jane took a shaky moment to assess the situation as Lisbon pulled off to the side of the road. All of his limbs were intact. This was good. Lisbon had lost her mind, clearly, and he'd probably played no small part in this new development, but...it would be okay. Everything was fine. Sure, he could deal with this. No problem.
"Get out," she demanded calmly, not looking at him.
Jane honestly hadn't expected her to kick him out of the car. He wasn't even being annoying—not as annoying as he could be, anyway. But walking back was actually starting to sound pretty good right about now.
He kept his mouth shut while unbuckling his seatbelt, then slid out and very quietly closed the door.
The air was dry and tinged with the scent of citrus. An orange grove, most likely. He could just make out the sounds of traffic in the distance. Couldn't be more than a mile—
The heavy slam of a car door cut into his thoughts, followed by the light rustle of footsteps through grass.
Oh. So she wasn't planning on driving off without him then.
It suddenly occurred to him that the ditch across the road, concealed by all manner of overgrown foliage, would be an excellent place to hide a body. His thoughts stopped there and he forbade them from advancing any further on that particular track. It was absurd and irrational. She wasn't that angry with him. And even if she were, this was Lisbon; Saint Teresa.
Deduction left him with only one remaining explanation. She must want to talk, vent, get some air.
Jane dashed around to her side of the car, cutting through the beams of the headlights and catching sight of her standing a few feet from the vehicle. Between her hair and suit she seemed to blend into the darkness. Jane tried to temper his eagerness as he approached her. If he played this right, he might be able to redeem himself and earn back her favour. Or at least diffuse the tension a bit.
They stood in silence for a while, until Jane couldn't hold back anymore. "I like your choice of scenery," he noted, following her gaze. Lines of orange trees stretched on for miles in the distance. In the day time it may have been lovely. Right now, though, they were little more than tree-shaped shadows lit only by the weak glow of light pollution. Jane was underwhelmed. "Lisbon, don't you think this is a little rash? I mean, we can talk in the car."
She turned to glare at him.
"Or...we can talk here," he amended. "Here is fine."
"What makes you think I want to talk to you right now?" she asked.
"I just... I don't know. Nothing, really. Sorry."
"Sorry? You're sorry?"
Lisbon turned her full attention to him now, and she was not impressed. Normally he would revel in being the object of her undivided attention, but now the sheer intensity of it was more daunting than he could handle. He should have just stayed on the other side of the car.
"I am," Jane promised, trying his best to convey the sincerity of the statement. "Lisbon, if I had thought it would upset you this much, I wouldn't have done it. Well, okay, I still would have done it, but I wouldn't have tricked you."
She scoffed. "No. You still don't get it, Jane. This isn't about me. You've convinced yourself that you did me a favour by toying with me all evening. And I get that. I do. I'm not even surprised," Lisbon chuckled humourlessly, crossing her arms.
"But?" Jane prompted.
"But, for all you claim to be helping people with your 'cathartic and life-affirming' stunts, you and I both know that's nothing more than bullshit showmanship."
Jane was at a loss as to where she was going with all of this. "Lisbon, what do you expect me to do? You won't even mention Bosco's name let alone talk about his death. You don't want my help, that's fine. But it isn't healthy."
"You are in no position to tell me how to grieve," she spat, seething with anger now. Lisbon started to pace. "Are you just going to keep messing with people's minds until you've finally gotten rid of anyone close to you? Is that your goal here?"
"I—" Jane started, but the glare he received made it perfectly clear the question was rhetorical.
She stopped wearing erratic circles in the grass to stand in front of him, her jaw set. "You were right, Jane. I am sad. But at least I'm dealing."
"And am I to take that to mean I'm not dealing?"
"Revenge won't bring them back."
Jane hated her a little bit at that moment, and wondered fleetingly if this is what she felt all those times he made her life unnecessarily difficult.
He wasn't going to have this conversation.
Of course it wouldn't bring them back; Jane held no delusions to the contrary. He didn't expect closure. He didn't deserve it. But when the time came, Jane would coat his hands in Red John's blood and watch the life drain out of him, and any notion of closure paled in comparison to the pure satisfaction that act would bring.
Jane returned her steady gaze. "Lisbon," he warned, "I am not—"
"Tell me," she interrupted, her voice raised, "what happens after, when this is all over, and Red John is brought to justice—"
"When he's dead," Jane corrected.
"When he's in prison," Lisbon continued, "and—assuming I can keep your ass alive and out of jail in the meantime—what happens when you no longer have revenge to live for?"
He didn't have an answer for her. Judging by her sudden disregard for his personal space as she closed in on him, he wasn't expected to supply one. He tried to take a step back without being too obvious about it, but only ended up pressed into the driver's side door of the dusty SUV.
"On second thought, don't tell me. I'll tell you what you think will happen," she offered, standing no more than an inch away while managing not to touch him directly. The fabric of his suit jacket fluttered with the rise and fall of her chest. "You claim to have no intention of walking away from this alive. You think you've got it all planned out. Say you do get him pinned down, at your mercy, and somehow he doesn't kill you first. You know we wouldn't be far behind."
Her arm shifted and his eyes flicked down to the soft snap that followed as she unholstered her gun. Jane's heart rate ratcheted up a notch.
She wouldn't shoot him. There was no way.
"So what'll it be, Jane? Are you planning to force one of us to shoot you? Will you leave me no choice but to put a gun to your head and pull the trigger?" she whispered, pressing the gun beneath his chin. "Suicide by cop."
Jane's hands raised automatically in a gesture of surrender.
A moment of doubt fractured his unwavering confidence, threatening to break into a chasm as he realised that he didn't recognise the look in her eyes. He had never seen her like this before.
Maybe this was it.
He'd finally pushed her too far.
"Or will you just disappear and blow your brains out in some empty motel room?"
"No," he lied, the subtle tremor in his voice betraying him, "I wouldn't do that to you."
His adam's apple brushed against the barrel when he swallowed.
"You don't care what it takes, or who you hurt in the process," she countered.
Lisbon cocked the gun.
He couldn't breathe, couldn't concentrate on anything but the pressure against his jaw and the erratic rhythm of her voice. Jane's vision started to waver as his heart slammed against his ribcage.
"I do!" Jane insisted. "I care, honest. Lisb—Teresa, can you please just put the gun down? I get it, I was wrong, I'm sorry."
"No you aren't. Not yet."
She held his gaze as she pulled the trigger.
A sharp click flooded his senses.
All his mind registered was the warmth of her breath against his neck until he finally caught up enough to recognize that he was breathing, too.
She whispered into the collar of his shirt, "Do you think I'll let go of you that easily?"
Jane opened his eyes, not having been aware of closing them in the first place. Tiny pinpricks of light were scattered across the sky. He hadn't even noticed the stars earlier, but now they seemed obscenely bright. The rustle of wind, the blaring traffic, even the sound of his ragged breathing was intensified.
His hands shook lightly, still raised, while his skin burned and tingled—adrenaline, his mind supplied.
She lowered the gun and Jane's gaze followed, catching on the brilliant green of her eyes then dropping to her lips. The urge to kiss her met with none of his usual mental resistance and flowed from impulse into action without thought ever entering into the equation.
Jane's hands fell to her shoulders and he spun her around, pressing her against his smudged imprint on the door. She met his lips with the same passion that he always expected from her, moaning against his mouth.
Arousal spiked through his veins as she caught his bottom lip between her teeth. He needed to touch her, and keep touching her, and quite possibly never stop because she was real and solid and Jane desperately needed her to stay that way. And she wasn't going to let go of him, he remembered. No matter how hard he tried to push her away.
Her pulse was rapid beneath his lips, in sync with his own.
Her hands travelled up his chest, pushing at his jacket and sliding under his vest, spurring on his own exploration. His senses overflowed; the taste of salt on her skin, the sting of pleasure and pain as her teeth bit down on his shoulder, the heat beneath his fingertips as his hands trailed over the curves of her body.
Somewhere between Teresa shuddering in his arms, and laying sated on the grass, it occurred to him that he'd been played.
She'd been playing him this whole time.
The gun was never loaded, but it was more than that. He no longer had nothing left to lose. Nothing would stop him from killing Red John, but for the first time he considered the possibility of a life that lay beyond revenge, and it didn't seem so empty after all.
"I can't believe you pulled a gun on me," Jane commented, still working his way out of the shock-induced fog.
Teresa glanced up at him and smiled teasingly. "Come on, Jane. You can't tell me you didn't enjoy the rush."