Lisbon doesn't want to talk, Jane doesn't need to. Her silence tells him everything he could think to ask, like it's their personal language. It was hers first, he supposes, but he can't help but wonder why he reads her so much better than he can anyone else, like all his life he's been inching towards her, his personal gravity. She keeps him grounded with actions, words, steely glares. For such a small woman, he muses, she holds a great deal of power over him. But tonight she's empty, broken. He wants to hurt him, bring him back to life so he can kill him again, the monster who did this to her, to his Lisbon. He wonders why he thinks of her as his, but then he always has, like a child wanting what they cannot have, simply because someone tells them no. She's always been his, before she said a word. After all, words hold no meaning to them, he lies, she taunts, caught in a dance of passion, forever close, never touching. She lies curled up on the couch where he so often lounges, annoying everyone with his casual observations. She's not asleep, he knows because her eyes flicker open every now and then, to make sure he's really there, or she's really there. He doesn't care either way.
"Lisbon," He whispers, "Theresa?" she tenses, expecting some caustic remark, a reprimand, even. She sits up a little, still curled into a ball. He sits next to her, wrapping his arms around her, drawing her close to him. She leans into his chest, the tears finally coming.
It was as close to death as she'd ever gotten, both of them knew that. Red John's knife was literally inches from her when Jane had burst in, murder in his eyes, and shot him. She hadn't slumped then, hadn't cried, didn't say a word. She filed the report like it was any other, not seeming even slightly upset. But she could only be strong for a matter a time. Jane had found her on the couch after hours, and kept her company. He didn't play any mind games, didn't make a joke, or tell her some random bit of trivia about herself that there's no way he could have known. This was as hard for him as it was for her. Harder, in some ways. Revenge had been his only reason for living for a long time. Red John was the last tie Jane had to this world, one last, tentative grasp at reality. Now that his vendetta was complete, what was there to live for? Lisbon answered as clearly as if he had been speaking aloud. Maybe he had been, he didn't really care anymore.
"Patrick Jane, don't you dare." She whispered. He nodded, and wiped away her tears. He whispered back.
"It's a black hole, eating away at me, everything I have, all my tricks, all my defenses, you're the only thing that holds me back. You're the reason for living." Jane was talking to himself again, off in his musings. His eyes suddenly regained their mischievous twinkle, and Lisbon bit back a laugh, despite her previous mood. Jane could always make her happy.
"Lisbon, I think I just might be in love with you." He looked so serious that she nearly started laughing again. He wasn't nervous, or cocky, he just stated it like he had discovered wool was in fact made from sheep's' fleece. She leaned backwards onto his chest and sighed. He wasn't expecting an answer anyways. Silence was her native tongue.