AN: Here it is folks: the sequel to Into the Blue. I'm so incredibly excited to finally share this with you all, and I can't wait to hear what you think. You don't need to have read Into the Blue to read this, though it may help. Basically, the premise is that after the season five finale Lisbon and Jane have an intimate conversation, and that conversation causes the storyline of season six to diverge immensely from canon. In this alternate universe, the whole team took down Red John, the Blake Association is still a threat, and Jane and Lisbon have fled the country.
Many of you know by now that I like to thematically tie a story together through song lyrics. For this story, I've chosen When I Fall by Lizz Wright because it seems to really capture the journey I want Lisbon to take in this narrative. All chapter titles/the story title are lyrics from this song.
Also, thanks to all who read/reviewed Believe. I'm very behind on responding to reviews, but that is next on my to do list!
Chapter 1: I Wish I Were Brave
Despite the fact that the sun was barely peaking above the ocean, the day had already dawned muggy and hot. Lisbon trudged on, her sneakers spraying sand behind her as she raced up the beach. The humidity of the South American climate nearly consumed her, making her feel as though she was swimming through the air rather than running, an effect only amplified by the sinking feeling of her feet in the sand. She breathed in deeply, and the salt of the sea overwhelmed her senses. She closed her eyes.
She could almost pretend she was at the seaside in California.
But she wasn't, of course. Five weeks ago, she'd fled California in hopes of finding safe haven in a South American paradise with nothing but a few pairs of clothes in a duffel bag and Jane at her side. Five weeks ago, Thomas McAllister had been shot and killed after being exposed as Red John, the serial killer who'd murdered Jane's wife and child. His followers, known amongst themselves as the Blake Association, remained at large.
Five weeks ago, Jane had told her he loved her.
Lisbon slowed to a jog as she neared the part of the beach that was most familiar to her. The small apartment that she now shared with Jane came into view, its pale blue paint blending in with the brightening sky. Lisbon wiped her forehead with her upper arm and pulled her earbuds out of her ears, shutting off her iPod. She sat down in the middle of the beach, turning away from the apartment to look over the water.
She'd had five weeks to get used to the idea of Jane being in love with her. And he'd certainly used every chance he had to keep reminding her of the fact. Every time he said the words, her body reacted the same—furious blush, curious eyes, and excited heart, as though in disbelief that she could be so lucky.
She'd begun to wonder if she was still going through the stereotypical honeymoon phase of a new relationship—or if she truly didn't think it was possible for Jane to love her.
The answer to that question scared her more than she cared to admit.
And so she'd felt the walls coming up around her again, and she was helpless to stop them from rising. And rise they did, brick by brick.
Though it had been five weeks since Jane had told her he loved her, she had yet to return the sentiment in words.
Lisbon redid her ponytail, gathering up the hair that had come loose during her run. Then she took off her sneakers and socks, shook them free of the sand they'd accumulated, and, barefoot, made her way up the walk to the apartment.
That afternoon, Lisbon rolled her shoulders back and tilted her head from side to side, attempting to relieve some of the stiffness building in her neck. After her efforts were rewarded with a quiet pop, she straightened her back and returned her attention to the piano. A humid breeze stole into the room, tickling the hairs at the base of her skull that had come loose from her ponytail. Lisbon played a chord and began to hum.
The chords and the melody had come easily soon after her and Jane's arrival on the island. They'd been walking on the beach near their apartment, Jane wandering off every so often to collect shells, and suddenly the ocean itself had seemed to sing. She'd hummed along, following its tune but at a loss for the story it was trying to convey.
Weeks later, the melody still had no story—and thus, no lyrics.
Lisbon sighed, beginning to feel frustrated with her writer's block. She heard a loud clunk from outside and hoped Jane hadn't managed to destroy the remnants of the garden near their front door. Half an hour earlier, he'd passed by the piano (looking very pleased with himself) with a small gardening shovel and a tray of exotic-looking flowers. Lisbon rolled her eyes and tried not to worry. No one could break a garden, she told herself. Not even if that someone was Jane.
Her thoughts remained focused on him, and she wondered if he was part of the reason for her unfinished song. She was so uncertain when it came to Jane, she realized. Perhaps that uncertainty in their relationship, and the associated uncertainty with the direction she wanted it to take, mirrored her inability to find a direction for the song.
She shook her head, knowing she was being ridiculous. She and Jane had barely been together a month—it was far too early to be wondering about their future or having doubts about him.
But was it really?
A small voice in the back of her mind conceded that her worries weren't irrational, and Lisbon's fingers on the piano keys slowed. Acidic words—her words—echoed in her mind, and she could see Jane's injured reaction as clearly as if he were standing in front of her.
"You use me when it's convenient then push me away when you're through with me. I don't believe that you love me—and I don't think you believe it, either."
Suddenly, the music resonating through the apartment stopped, and Lisbon became aware that her hands had frozen on the keyboard. She began to play the first chords she could think of to stop them from trembling.
Her words, of course, had not been intended to hurt Jane—quite the opposite, in fact. She'd said them as part of a plan to trap Red John. Though later she'd apologized for what she'd said to him, she was reminded of the pain she'd inflicted on Jane every time she thought about their staged argument that night. Jane had accepted her apology, gallantly telling her there was nothing to forgive.
They hadn't acknowledged the argument since. They each had their own reasons for trying to ignore her cruel words: Lisbon because she knew the words were too hurtful to deserve to be forgiven, and Jane because he knew the words were rooted in truth.
She sighed again. They really needed to discuss this. She'd never be able to halt the construction of the walls being built around her if they didn't.
Giving up on her songwriting, Lisbon stood up from the piano bench and walked through the family room to the front door, which Jane had left open. She leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms over her chest, and watched as Jane dug the small shovel into the soil.
Her eyebrows rose as she took in what had once been a sorry excuse for a front garden but now resembled a miniature arboretum. Jane was in the center of it all, his back to her, literally up to his elbows in dirt. He was clad in khaki shorts and wasn't wearing shoes, and his hair had been bleached even blonder in the island sun. As she watched, he leaned back on his heels, wiped his forehead with the sleeve of one of his new island shirts, then returned to digging.
Lisbon's lips quirked into a small smile.
The smile faded as a thought occurred to her.
Upon arriving to their island paradise, one of the first things Jane had insisted on was taking Lisbon shopping. Since she'd been wearing the same three outfits during their escape from California and the Blake Association, she had acquiesced gladly and not thought anything of it. However, she now wondered where Jane's new island shirts, and wardrobe in general, had come from. After all, that day he'd only bought clothes for her—not for himself.
"Jane," Lisbon said quietly, a knot forming in the pit of her stomach.
"Hmmm?" he responded, still digging intently.
"You took me shopping," she said.
"Uh, yes, Lisbon," he said, sounding as though he found her comment obvious. She flushed. "You left the vast majority of your possessions in Sacramento."
Lisbon shook her head. "No," she said, then hastened to elaborate. "What I mean is…you didn't buy anything for yourself." The knot in her stomach tightened when she saw the shovel in his hand hesitate before returning to the soil.
"I ordered a few things for myself beforehand," said Jane, his tone too natural, too easy, and he seemed determined to keep his eyes on the flowers below him. "You know, to make the transition easier."
Despite the heat and humidity of the air, Lisbon felt a chill. "You prepared more than a few things," she pointed out, and more pieces fell into place. "You prearranged this apartment and nearly everything in it—the dishes, the food, the furniture." She paused, considering. "The only thing not prearranged was…me."
Jane sat back on his heels, still facing away from her.
"You were planning on leaving me again, weren't you?" she said, trying to keep her tone even. She didn't think she succeeded.
Jane didn't respond, which as good as answered her question.
"Did you always plan on running away from me after you'd killed Red John?" she asked, simultaneously needing but not wanting to know. "How long, Jane? How long ago did you plan this—how long ago did you plan on leaving me?"
Jane looked over his shoulder at her, his eyes emotionless.
"A few weeks before we killed McAllister," he said.
Lisbon pushed away from the doorframe, and her forehead wrinkled as her eyebrows rose again. "A few…a few weeks before McAllister?" she sputtered. "Around the time we…" she trailed off, not needing to finish the sentence.
"Around the time we agreed to be honest with each other?" said Jane, wiping his hands on his khakis and standing up. "Yes, Lisbon, around that time."
Lisbon pulled her arms around herself tighter, feeling like it was the only way she could keep from breaking apart. Of course he'd been lying to her from the very beginning, despite his promises to the contrary. Of course the conversation that had changed everything for her—the conversation that had meant everything to her—had been a lie. Of course.
He looked unapologetic, completely non-repentant, and that was what set Lisbon over the edge.
"You were using me," she whispered in horror. "You used me from the beginning, when I asked you if you'd known I was in love with you. And you continued to use me until the end. You manipulated me to help you get close to Red John."
Her previous words beat a rhythm into her brain like a mantra.
"You use me when it's convenient then push me away when you're through with me. I don't believe that you love me—and I don't think you believe it, either."
They'd never seemed more fitting before now.
"What?" said Jane, and he sounded alarmed. Lisbon avoided his eyes, hoping he hadn't picked up on the moisture that was threatening hers. "What? No! Lisbon, that's not what this was about at all!"
But she'd already turned her back, storming through the apartment and out the back door, making her way toward the beach.
He sat down beside her hours later, after the sun had sunk below the ocean—after the sand had begun to feel cool beneath her legs. She'd long since run out of tears to cry.
"Can I explain?" he said, his tone insistent but soft.
She nodded stiffly.
"My original plan was to shoot Red John," he began, "after which I would shoot myself."
Lisbon held her breath. However terrible this revelation seemed, she couldn't say it was terribly surprising.
"What changed?" she asked.
"We did," he said simply. "The day that we had that conversation in the CBI attic—the day you bandaged up my hand—I decided I couldn't do that to you. I wouldn't make you live through that."
She dug her toes further in the beach, and he grabbed a handful of sand and let it fall slowly back down, the sparkling particles falling as though in an hourglass.
"My new plan consisted of me killing Red John then running away to a non-extradition country where I couldn't be punished for his murder. I thought that would be easiest on you—I didn't want you to see me sent to jail, or even put on death row." He breathed in deeply before he continued. "I tried to warn you of that, when I told you not to wait for me."
Lisbon gave him that one. He had been upfront about not being available.
"When we started getting closer to catching him, I began to make preparations. Of course, this was before I knew about the Blake Association, so I didn't realize you'd be in more danger in the States than traveling with me. At the time, I thought I had to go alone. I knew if I asked you to come, you would—but I couldn't make you give up your friends, your job, your family—damn it, Lisbon, I couldn't make you give up your life to go on the run with me. I couldn't take your life away from you in exchange for this half-life I would be offering you here. So yes," he said, "I wasn't originally planning on having you come with me. I wanted you here more than anything, but I couldn't ask you to come. I just couldn't."
He stared at her, his eyes a steely blue, and Lisbon felt like she could breathe again. "I'd already given my life for the cause, Lisbon. I didn't want to volunteer yours as well."
Lisbon bit her lip, torn between being rational and wanting to believe him. The latter won out, and she let him gather her into his arms.
He kissed the top of her head, and she felt goosebumps erupt on his arms.
"I know you're still upset with me—this doesn't fix anything," he said.
Lisbon rested her lips on his collarbone. "What are we going to do, Jane?" she asked weakly, and another question hung in the air between them, unspoken, as so many things for them often were.
How the hell will I ever be able to trust you, Jane?
"I don't know," he said, and he seemed to be answering both questions. "But I promise I will think of something—we'll get through this, Lisbon. I promise. I swear."
She nodded against him, her nose touching his shoulder, and he pulled her up and led her back to their apartment, one arm draped around her waist.
AN: As far as angst goes for this story, that is probably going to be the worst part. After all, Jane and Lisbon are in paradise, and to reflect this I wanted to tell a more lighthearted story.