A/N: So I know I've been slacking on my one story, and it's because I lost the mojo for it, but I'm sure I will get back to it. I've been busy, work + a commission by a friend + sickness has worn me out. I'm thinking I need a refresher. Hopefully this goes as planned. My "XOX" will separate the past and the present, cuz I hate writing in all italics. It's annoying. And I'm not writing 'flashback', because that's annoying too. The lyrics are "Decode" by Paramore; I recommend the acoustic version.
The Bright Red Afterglow
The truth is hiding in your eyes
And it's hanging on your tongue.
Just boiling in my blood.
But you think that I can't see
What kind of man that you are
If you're a man at all.
Well, I will figure this one out
On my own.
I'm screaming
"I love you so."
XOX
She never thought he'd do it. Sure, it remained an idle thought in the dark recesses of her oft-troubled mind. But she thought of it as a fleeting threat, akin to picking truth over dare no matter how much one puffed their chest.
He'd called his own bluff.
And she didn't see it coming. Blindsided by his verbal whiplash.
She thought they were getting somewhere.
Somewhere was a hope and a whim that they'd get back to good, to even ground, instead of dangling on their respective precipices until one of them caved. Called a truce.
Or shoved the other off the cliff.
The old adage filtered through her mind: fool me once, shame on you…fool me twice, shame on me…
He'd done well to stay far out of her way since Vegas. The obese elephant that crowded every room the pair stood in. Since Lorelei and all the recriminations that brought. She wasn't nearly as imperceptive as he assumed; she knew a staged "car accident" when she saw one. Knew he'd let the siren flee. Sure, he was good, playing the victim. She'd let him have his small victory, choosing ignorance over bliss, praying his plan worked, if for his sake and sanity.
It hadn't, not really.
Lorelei's body appeared three days after the temptress called Jane more than six months after her "escape", claiming she believed him, that Red John had betrayed her, killed her estranged sister, subsequently brought her into the fold. He knew she was a dead woman walking the moment she confronted the illustrious serial killer.
It was where her body was left that made all the difference.
Left for all to struggle for an explanation as to why, except for the two that mattered most.
Lorelei Martin's body was left in Teresa Lisbon's bed, laid primly out as if she were to be put on a cross. It patronized her faith, and patronized Jane's ability to catch him. The bloody smile glared darkly from its position on her beige walls.
The message was clear.
They'd been gone on a case for two days, leaving the serial killer ample time to set his stage. It meant he was coming for her. It meant he could get to her, no matter who was watching. It meant he was smarter than Patrick Jane.
He was hot as fire and cold as ice after that, and never anything in between. He made her dizzier than watching a pendulum swing back and forth. One moment he was coddling her, treating her as if she were a piece of glass the whole world was bound to break; the next, he'd shrug her off like a rain soaked coat, a pest to be ignored.
She was used to this behavior, to an extent.
With all his hot and cold, neither saw Red John's plan happening around them. All of it culminated on an off day, when his flash frozen attitude finally had her spitting every bitter thought she'd ever had about him since they'd met ten years ago, much to both of their horrors. He'd withered, silently leaving without a backward glance. She crumbled, heavy, heart wrenching sobs filling her empty apartment.
And the mad man saw it all.
…
Every fiber in her body wanted to call him back, take back all the ugly words. She'd meant every one, from that deep dark place in her heart. The one that watched him glorify his dead wife, flirt with devious femme fatales and murderous wretches, mock a woman to such an insulting extent just to turn around and ask her out, and finally slept with the devil herself.
What was really left for them? Trust? Their friendship had sailed. A relationship was a joke. He'd always see her as the woman that had the case he needed so desperately, and little else. She was a constant reminder of what he didn't have.
Truth be told, her apartment had felt off since they'd found Lorelei's body. She'd been sleeping on her couch ever since, hadn't even had the courage to go upstairs, but filled with too much pride to take Grace up on her offer to stay with her. But she should have been prepared, held onto that gut instinct of tiny hairs rising on her arms.
She was unconscious before she knew what hit her.
…
He sat in his blue Citroen for a while. Keys in the ignition, with no intention of turning on the 'collector' car. Patrick Jane knew he deserved everything the enraged woman he'd called a friend had thrown at him. She'd bypassed Angry Princess and gone straight to Vengeful Deity. It was anger he didn't know she possessed. Or maybe it was just anger he'd never seen.
His reputation being what it was, he knew he couldn't leave well enough alone. Even if it was far from well.
If it were any other woman he would have sped off long ago. But she wasn't just any woman, and he could practically feel Angela's seething commentary battling his bruised ego. Sighing heavily, he made his way back to the apartment. She'd forgiven him some of his greatest sins, even those against her. Far be it from him not to forgive her well-deserved words.
He knocked once, twice, and a third time before she answered. Her eyes were alight with something he couldn't figure out; a message he couldn't read. They were also glazed, and her pupils seemed to dilate and contract a little too much to be mistaken as arousal or anger.
It was then he noticed the blood on her gray shirt, and the warning bells sounded.
"Jane…come in…" she whispered breathlessly, hesitantly.
He didn't have a choice.
He knew what waited on the other side of the door.
XOX
She'd felt like Eve with the apple, luring him in to face his demons.
Neither had made it out unscathed. She literally, him figuratively.
They played a game in her apartment, tied ruthlessly to chairs that faced each other a mere foot apart. Truth or Lie. And Red John got to ask the questions.
The truth would set them free. The lie would earn Lisbon a gash where Red John chose.
And they were powerless to stop it.
…
"Stop this," Jane bit through clenched teeth and clenched fists from his seat across from Lisbon. He'd seen more than enough. He was the most brilliant of liars and cons, but the mad man saw through it all, and his arrogance had earned Lisbon her sixth cut in as many minutes.
"I'll stop when you tell me the truth, Patrick," Red John said innocently, belying the smirk in his words, drawing patterns on Lisbon's pale white skin with his knife.
"What, what is it that you so desperately want to know about me? I thought you knew everything, I thought your minions fed you all the information you wanted!" He shouted carelessly.
"Oh they do, they're quite good at it. And yes, I know a lot about you, Patrick, but nothing I can't simply google. What I want to know is how you feel, what's changed these past few years? You've become detached from the game, distracted; you've put us on the back burner, so to speak. I sent you Lorelei to invigorate you, get you moving, to sacrifice my queen and see where the game would take us. But you can't sacrifice yours, can you?"
"Where is this going?" he demanded, bewildered by all the riddles but holding onto the sneaking suspicion that he did, in fact, know.
Again, his casual dismissal earned another cut to the beauty before them.
"Even the Great Patrick Jane can't hide a flinch. Tell me, how does she make you feel, Patrick? I know, deep down in that place that used to house a heart, that something is still alive. I've watched her, how you two interact. I watched you kill Hardy to save her, your best lead gone because he was stupid enough to try and shoot her. Despite everything I've done, you two always find your way back to each other. So let's be honest here, since she was so honest earlier. How do you really feel?"
He swallowed thickly. It was neither the time nor the place for such a question. It was meant to dig at his ego, to dismiss the real reason he hunted the man before him. Either way the answer hurt Teresa; it was just a matter of whether the hurt was mental or physical.
"You can have my answer only if you trade, her for me."
The man huffed. "Well, I can't say I didn't see this bargain," Red John said with a crooked smile. "But if you lie, I slit her throat here and now. Don't toy with me Patrick. Choose your words carefully."
XOX
He left her.
He left her.
She didn't think he'd actually do it. Run off with his new life, leaving the past behind like nothing happened. No one had that kind of compartmentalization.
They all had baggage. All had scars. Some more prominent than others, she thought as she ran a fingertip over the long mark that marred her neck. The only comfort she took from the mark was that she'd survived it.
And perhaps that was the reason he'd left.
His wife had died. His daughter had died. Kristina Frye was as useful as a crystal ball. Lorelei was dead. Sam Bosco and his team. Wainwright. Madeline Hightower, driven into hiding. Every lead, every time they got close, erased.
But against all odds, Teresa Lisbon had survived.
She was sure that hurt the most.
Was it her strength, her will to live, or his weakness to admit defeat that did it in the end?
Either way, Patrick Jane was still gone.
XOX
If he were to say the words, they shouldn't be something spoken to ease the mind of a lunatic serial killer. They should have been said long ago, to ease the mind of the woman who hadn't given up on him. She'd never called him broken, though he was sure she'd thought it a time or two. Lisbon had never tried to fix him, tame him, change him.
"Tick, tock, Patrick."
He tried to catch her green eyes, but hers were clouded and lost in pain that she bit back valiantly. Maybe she'd forgive him one day. She didn't want to face his truth, or she didn't want him to take it back again.
"She's my best friend. She's the one person that never let me fall, even when I wanted to. She's made me feel a lot over the years, more than I thought I could. Anger, like earlier, though that was a well deserved anger on both our parts; frustration, almost daily, because she loves to stick to the rule book. Regret, for getting her into things that I never should have gotten her into, for costing her the job a time or two. Concern for her safety, always. Happiness, something I thought I'd forgotten, until we'd joke or take a walk on the beach," he swallowed again, taking the pause to gather his courage. "Ultimately I feel love, for her. I love her, and I'll be damned if you take her too."
He lunged from his seat before Red John could react, having been tied somewhat less tightly than Lisbon, fighting the mad man for control of the knife he wielded. He may not have been the most athletic, but Jane's ability for almost perfect recall allowed him to memorize some of Lisbon's more basic moves when it came to incapacitating criminals. He threw a punch to the side of Red John's face, and another hit him in the stomach. Red John still had the knife, and in their battle for control, they'd kicked over Lisbon's chair, eliciting a yelp from the agent.
She struggled to loose the duct tape that wound one wrist to the arm of the chair, the other cuffed quite creatively. The deeper cuts screamed at her, and she tried frantically to ignore them as her blood stained her rug. Jane wouldn't last long with his skill, and if they made it out of this alive, she would be mandating him gym time.
She heard Jane grunt, and rolling her head back just enough, she could see the wicked grin spreading across Red John's face as he pulled the blade out of Jane's left shoulder. "Jane!" She shrieked as he dropped. The only comfort she felt was that it wasn't any lower as she began to wedge herself out of the duct tape with renewed effort.
She didn't get far.
She felt the rough, wrathful pull of her hair, and she couldn't stop the barely contained yell. She was pulled upright in a dizzying manner, the shiny silver blade pressed to her neck before it pierced her pale skin as Red John drug it across.
The last thing she saw was Jane's petrified face as he tried to move forward. The last words she heard as the bright white fog crept into her vision sent chills down her spine. She would never forget them.
"Say hello to Angela, won't you Teresa?"
She never heard the gunshot.
…
The team had filled her in days later, after more than two hundred stitches left her looking like the bride of Frankenstein.
Red John hadn't been smart enough to take Jane's cell phone, too wrapped up in his warped stage to remember the details. Jane had called Cho, hoping the stoic man answered instead of ignoring his pleas in favor of some "light" reading.
Apparently it was Grace who'd gotten her revenge. For Craig's deception. For her own frailty. Teresa had wanted to pull her aside, ask if she was okay, if Jane was okay with her stealing his revenge.
The moment she'd mentioned Jane, the mood in the room shifted heavily.
When they'd told her he'd left in the night, she'd had to literally bite back the tears.
XOX
Thinking back, she should have expected his disappearance when he wasn't all but cuffed to her bedside. She was a fool.
To some twisted extent, he'd gotten what he'd wanted. Red John's death. Nothing held him to this place now. She should have known she was dismissible.
Despite his words that day so long ago, she couldn't help but feel they were only half heartfelt. She threw herself into work, it was all she had. She pushed herself to go out more; one uninteresting date after another. Usually Van Pelt set her up. It was Lisbon's way of keeping Grace from veering off the deep end once more.
Grace may have chosen to be oblivious, but Cho certainly wasn't. He was having a hard time admitting that he couldn't find Patrick Jane. It was like he'd vanished into the night and taken their bosses heart with him. If the blonde consultant ever returned, he would certainly be having some choice words with him. Even Rigsby picked up on the overly cheery Van Pelt, continuously irked Cho, and their heartbroken boss.
…
To Jane's credit, he hadn't actually fled California. He'd simply led them all to believe he had. He'd never been good with goodbye.
"You're a fool, you know that, right?" Sammy said with a scolding finger thrust into his face. His grin was more of a grimace. "Now, I'm not sayin' I like cops, but that Pepper sure has a way around the law, if what she did for Danny has any merit. And it does carry a lotta merit in my book."
"I know Sammy, so you've said," he said with sigh. He'd always known where the circus was headed. It was a kind of intrinsic instinct, and the best hideout. "And so Pete's said too."
"Why won't you let yourself be happy Patrick? You know Angie is up there throwing fits that you haven't moved on."
She was starting to sound like his Bella Donna hallucinations of Charlotte.
"It's just…when he cut her…it was Angela all over again. It was all so real and hard and horrible. And again there was nothing I could do to save her. That doesn't make me worthy of anything Sammy, she needs someone who can actually take care of her."
"Really? Because from what I've seen Pepper can take care of herself just fine. Your problem is comparison. These are two very different women, and you are thinking of two very different times in your life. You and Angela were carefree kids when you ran off and got married; she needed and wanted taking care of, and you were both in it for the escape. You had no control over her death, and neither did she. I like to think she never saw it coming, never felt it. Now you're older and with that comes the wisdom to know the difference. You're not a carefree teenager, you're a man who needs someone with the strength to know how to care for you, and deal with you, despite everything that's happened in your life, and hers. And something tells me Pepper knew her time was coming to face the creator, she was prepared for it, her job prepared her for it. This woman does not need taking care of, or providing for, no matter what you think. You'll never let go of the past until you stop drawing those comparisons between the two."
He gave Sammy a watery grin, before taking the tea she'd provided and finding a decent (though not as comfortable spot as his couch) to ponder the onslaught of insight.
Sammy had always had that way about her. The gift of knowing exactly what you needed to hear to kick your ass into gear.
He had been different then. Maybe he clung to Angela and her death because he'd been so young and foolish. A selfish con man getting everything he wanted and more, unable to leave his scheming life behind for his beautiful daughter and wonderful wife. His life had radically changed after they'd been swiftly taken. It had been time for a change.
For many years his dreams had been filled with the memories of his golden haired wife and child. And then the dreams would shift. They'd fill their corners with dark raven hair and bottle green eyes and an untold future with a woman he vowed he'd never fall for. They were both so different.
Angela had been delicate, feminine, poised and adoring, knowing all the right things to say to all the right connections. A classic beauty with elegant features and a love for pretty things. She'd been artistic and musical, looking a little bit like Cinderella, like little birds braided her hair in the morning; it was a comment he'd shared with her once and she'd simply laughed her bell like laugh. She loved their baby girl. She loved him for all that he was and couldn't be.
Teresa was a far different breed. A brutal childhood shaped her moral conscious. She was a contradiction unto herself, a fighter, soft and hard, beautiful and bruised. Never fragile, always by the book, with cleverness he had not realized she possessed. A tomboy at heart with a hidden desire to be seen as a real, truly attractive woman, to not be as repressed as her job and her outlook demanded. She reminded him of Snow White, always running, always hiding, and so close to death she could taste it.
He knew she was okay. As much as one could be after having their throat slit. He'd stuck around long enough, nursing the wound in his shoulder, to find out she'd had over two hundred stitches to seal the cuts. While she slept in the stiff hospital bed, he'd slipped into her room. Just to see her before he left. At the time he hadn't been sure where he'd go. Not far, he knew, but far enough that she wouldn't be intent on following him.
Jane had bent forward, gently brushing her tangled hair aside before placing the whisper of a kiss on her lips. "I meant it," he'd said, almost inaudibly. Too much of a coward to stay. He'd taken her necklace, the little cross charm a sound reminder of the woman waiting for him.
He turned uncomfortably in the small caravan. Yes, he did mean it. He'd meant it when he first said it a little over a year ago, then two months ago in the presence of a maniacal serial killer, and he certainly still felt that love as much as he did now.
He huffed, standing quickly and practically slamming the tea cup down on the side table.
"Where are you off too Patrick?" Sammy asked with a curious eyebrow.
"I'm going out for a bit," he replied dryly as he let the door swing shut.
"Yea, I bet you are." Sammy whispered to no one. "Be seeing you a lot later by my predictions."
…
He'd put his house on the market.
She hadn't meant to discover this little tidbit of information. It had happened upon her by accident from one of the lower level agents at the water cooler. They'd clammed up as soon as they saw her, turning tail and fleeing her assumed wrath. She didn't have the heart to fight anymore. She'd take the gossip because it was all she had left of him. That and his lonely couch, devoid of anything but a few books he'd been idly flipping through months before. She'd taken his throw, needing something that smelled like him, letting it rest in its new home on the couch he'd bought her years ago. She didn't think he'd mind; she had the sneaking suspicion he'd made off with her mother's cross. It had taken her two weeks to realize it was missing, so distracted by the stitches and the press conferences. A fleeting thought had her wondering if she'd ever see the precious heirloom, or her consultant, again.
His couch remained like a shrine to a departed friend. No one dared go near it. After a late night cleaning crew came in to fix some of the pipes and she saw them using the couch like a work bench, she'd verbally accosted each of the men, nearly running them out of the building much to her embarrassment.
The dates set up by Grace were doing nothing to quell her growing agitation. This was Vegas all over again, except this time she didn't think he was ever coming back.
Roger was a boring accountant. Ken was an image-loving trainer from Grace's gym. Bruce was a macho, attention craving, news anchor they'd met on a case. Dominic had been the first real promise, a down to earth high school teacher, but his comment about her always speaking of her friend "Jane" was something he thought she should look into before going out with a man. She'd laughed a good long while after that. The first real laugh since he had left.
That was also the night she'd gotten the call from Sammy.
…
Teresa wasn't all that surprised that he'd taken up hiding at the circus. It was fitting, but it was also backsliding. It was where he'd been the closest with Angela. She'd received a mere glimpse into that world.
They hadn't spoken long, no room for small talk with a cop when it came to the carney folk. But Sammy had been gracious enough to let her know he was alive and well, if but a little more broken than usual.
Lisbon didn't even bother asking when, or if, he was coming back.
It didn't go unnoticed by Sammy.
After they hung up, Teresa went to the one place that still provided her a modicum of comfort.
Her church.
…
Three weeks after Jane put his house on the market, it sold.
Hiring a crew to repaint the interior helped the process, but only slightly. He realized, now that Red John was gone, that he couldn't face the house or the room. They weren't there, and never were. It was his way of setting them free.
Letting go was step one.
Step two was harder. The fear of removing the infamous wedding ring plagued him. What was he supposed to do with it? Should he bear the burden of guilt over their deaths now that they'd been avenged? He'd meant til' death, truly. He was a man of his word when it came to such heavy promises. But maybe, maybe he could reunite with his first love when he himself was good and gone.
Testing the boundaries of his own will, he slid the gold band off.
It wasn't as climatic as he'd initially suspected. Maybe he thought the world would end, or fiery hell would rain down. But the ring simply glinted in the sunlight as he lay in the white sand. The beach always helped him concentrate.
Jane tugged the little gold cross out of his vest pocket, tracing the elaborate design with his thumb. He knew by now that Teresa was probably missing the heirloom. She'd never complain or scold him, but he hadn't exactly given her his return date either.
He unclasped the thin gold chain, hesitating, before sliding the band next to the cross.
He needed freedom.
She needed proof.
…
"This came for you boss," Grace said gently, handing Lisbon the small manila package.
"Thanks Van Pelt," Lisbon replied, distracted by their current case as she reached out for it. Grace didn't let the envelope go though, and this caused Lisbon to look up at her junior agent with curiosity. "What is it?"
Grace looked away, then back to Lisbon. "I…I'm pretty sure it's from Jane."
Lisbon froze a moment before responding. "Thank you, Van Pelt, you can go."
Lisbon hadn't meant for it to come out as terse as it had, but the junior agent seemed to understand, offering a wry smile before leaving, closing the door with a soft click as she did.
Case notes forgotten, she simply held the envelope for a long while, staring at the familiar, elegant script. Three months without so much as a text message, and now this. There was no return address, just her name in his neat scrawl.
She let out a lengthy sigh, slitting the edges open with her thumbnails. She tilted the opened pocket, a bit surprised to feel the shape of her cross fall into her palm. But it was weightier, and she realized another charm had been added.
But really not a charm at all.
Teresa Lisbon was speechless as she let the necklace dangle from her fingers.
His ring had taken up residence on her mother's chain. She had to steady her breathing, hold back the lump in her throat and the tears behind her eyes.
As she slipped it over her head, she knew the questions would come flooding. The gossip would double. The rumors would be salacious. Teresa Lisbon was wearing her missing consultant's wedding ring around her neck.
This would certainly be interesting.
…
Patrick Jane wandered aimlessly through Sacramento. By now she would have received the package. By now, maybe she was wearing it. If not, he couldn't blame her. Twice now he'd left her without so much as goodbye.
What made her so loyal to him he honestly had no clue. Perhaps she was a glutton for punishment, or had done something awful in a past life to deserve an ass like him. She demonstrated a level of devotion that even Angela had not possessed. That may not have been fair to think, but the fact held.
He didn't realize his wandering had brought him to her church.
…
Cho was the first to notice. He stiffened, but chose not to comment.
Rigsby, being Rigsby, openly stared, mouth agape.
Van Pelt's eyes went wide, and she hid a tiny smile. She was the least likely to forgive Patrick Jane for his faults, but her compassion and romanticism overruled her anger.
And it wasn't long before her assumption about the vastness of the CBI rumor mill came true. It seemed every employee from janitor to director had an opinion on what "those two had been doing behind closed doors for years."
She couldn't help but laugh. Apparently she'd been dating him in secret since they met; in another story, she was obsessed with his celebrity and had seduced him by demanding the Red John case; her favorite was their under the table marriage and possible lovechild, though she was rather peeved at this because she had never let her figure go by any means.
How little they all knew, she thought with a pang of sadness. They didn't know him like she did.
Sometimes she wished she could stop this foolishness, fall for someone without the baggage. Fall for someone like Mashburn, whose childlike demeanor had kept her on her toes, but not in the way Jane's did.
And there was the rub.
No one was Patrick Jane.
She sighed heavily, needing a break from the sheer madness of the office.
"I'm going out, Cho you're in charge," she said without room for argument. They all nodded. Since Red John's death, they'd been given a sort of strange freedom. They'd simultaneously become the most famous sector of the CBI, and the most unapproachable, as if they were tainted by the slain killer. Their actions didn't seem to have consequences, so why bother, had been Bertram's tired acknowledgement. He'd gained a promotion, and revered them for it to an extent.
Besides, they all knew where she was going.
…
He didn't pray. He never had. He didn't believe the same notions Teresa did. Didn't believe someone was up in the clouds, determining their actions, their fate, their lives.
But he understood the comfort the place brought her. It was…peaceful. Quiet and captivating. He felt out of place amongst the believers, an imposter.
Beware of false prophets and the like, he thought with a smirk. It was one of the few lines he could recall reading in Lisbon's bible, hidden in her desk drawer. He'd never tell her he'd actually read the book cover to cover, just to see what all the hype was about during a particularly boring week in the CBI.
He closed his eyes, leaning back in the hard bench.
Perhaps he'd catch a nap. The church was empty after all.
…
Lisbon pushed the heavy door of the church open, dipping her fingers in the holy water as she passed. She always slid into the back pew now, ready to flee at a moments notice. It was empty today, but that didn't make a difference.
Her prayers sounded like girlish wishes now. Fantasies of things that would never be. She prayed Jane was safe, eating right, staying out of trouble. She prayed he'd come back to her, but that was the most foolish thought of all.
The difference today was that she didn't touch the cross.
It was the ring she held onto now.
She didn't stay long.
…
He cracked an eye when he heard the door swing open and the click of heels on the wood floor. He thought nothing of it at first. And then he breathed deeply.
He smelled cinnamon and coffee. The tell tale smell of Teresa Lisbon.
She was here.
His heart leapt, before realizing he couldn't just sit up in the pew and say, "hey what's up Lisbon?" without scaring her or causing a wrath to rival the one he'd witnessed months back.
And she left before he gained the courage to unveil himself.
Jane waited, giving her a three-minute head start before following after her.
It hadn't occurred to him how desperately he wanted to see her as he trailed a block behind her. She was thinner, like when he'd disappeared to Vegas; the shirt she wore was one that had fit her snugly before, emphasizing her slight curves. She stopped at a coffee stand, ordering a massive cup with bony fingers. He caught the purple bags under her tired eyes as she forced a smile at the barista. Her hair was longer, and he was sure it wasn't so much for style as it was for her to hide behind.
She tapped her right foot while she waited, and twisted her necklace in her fingers in a nervous manner. She really didn't need the caffeine, but he wasn't there to feed her, to make her tea and tell her to go home at night.
His gaze drifted to the necklace.
So she was wearing it. He smiled, one that he hadn't been able to recreate in many years. In fact, Lisbon was toying with the ring, letting it slip on and off her left ring finger probably without her knowledge.
It was rather symbolic of their bond. He'd known what she wanted for a few years now. How she felt. Her desire for a family of her own even more so, though she'd never said anything to the contrary aloud.
Jane found himself walking without really thinking. He wanted to call out to her. He wanted to feel her. He couldn't though, too soon, not the right place, not here in the open for all to see. He watched her turn, walk back towards the CBI.
He'd wait. He was good at waiting. And so was she.
…
Her stomach clenched, growling loudly as she unlocked her apartment door. Dropping her bag on the small table, she wandered into the kitchen. With the recent case and worrying for Jane, she'd forgotten the last time she'd eaten.
Lisbon opened her fridge, swearing.
"Dammit," she said with a sigh, massaging her forehead. She'd forgotten groceries. Again.
She pulled out her vast array of takeout menus, selecting one at random. It had become something of a game. Lisbon called the order in. Chinese it was.
She desperately needed a hot bath.
…
Jane knew her habits, bad and unhealthy as they were. He waited for the delivery boy to arrive before making his entrance. The boy was confused, but easily swayed by the lavish tip Jane offered for his service. Now all he had to do was knock.
…
The bath only slightly calmed her constantly rattled nerves and tired body. She brushed her hair, put something for the bags under your eyes on from Grace, grabbed her favorite gray sweatpants and a more un-Lisbon-like shirt from Annie last Christmas. It was a little girly for her taste, a lace pattern covered it and it was ruched up the sides, but it was a tasteful shade of emerald and she didn't want to disappoint her niece. She was like her father in that regard, never able to figure out what to get anyone.
She glanced at the clock on her bedside table. Delivery should be arriving.
The cursory knock on the door grabbed her attention and answered her question.
She grabbed her wallet, opening the door while she pried open the brown leather. "How much do I…"
The sentence died on her lips. The wallet dropped from her suddenly slack hand.
"Jane?" she whispered breathlessly. The last time they'd been in her apartment (which she stubbornly refused to leave, no matter how creepy it had become; two deaths in a matter of weeks) they'd been forced to confront demons, new and old, and ones they weren't ready for at that. She was rooted to the spot; her feet wouldn't move without a strong gust of wind…or an earthquake.
"Hey Lisbon," he answered quietly, taking in her appearance up close. Her face was flushed from a hot bath, dark hair damp and straight. She looked absolutely stunning. His eyes fluttered to the white scar on her neck, and she reflexively reached up to cover it. "Sorry, I didn't mean…"
She held up her hand. "It's…okay. I forget it's there…sometimes," Lisbon tried to inject sincerity into her tone but he knew better. A scar like that was something no one forgot, or let you forget. He let her have it though, if it helped her sleep at night.
He held up her food. She was far from hungry now. She was teetering between throwing herself into his arms and conversely punching him soundly in his nose again. She stepped away from the threshold, allowing him in. She still stared in strange wonderment.
"I'm going to make a cup of tea while you…sit," Jane stated carefully. He was unsure of what her reaction would entail when she snapped out of her confusion and disbelief. He could tell her thoughts were swinging violently back and forth.
She toyed nervously with the ring again. She probably thought he was there to take it back and run.
He found all the trappings for his tea, movements slow and languid.
"So, what is this supposed to be?"
Her voice startled him. He hadn't counted on her following him.
Jane turned to see what she spoke of. She clasped the ring loosely, sliding it back and forth on its chain. He said nothing, turning back to the tea.
"Hey, you owe me this much Patrick," she bit out angrily. He stiffened at the tone and the name.
"I know," He said almost inaudibly.
"I just want to know…is this a one time visit, are you planning on leaving?" The question was fragile, and spoken as such.
"In time, Lisbon. We'll get to that." He poured the water over the tea bags, adding milk and sugar. "Let's sit, talk."
"Sammy called me about a month ago. It was nice to know you were alive," she added harshly. "I figured that's where you went."
"And you decided to leave me to my own devices? You're telling me you didn't try to find me?"
"What would have been the point Jane? How could I have convinced you to come home when I couldn't get you to come back from Vegas?"
He swallowed hard. "Vegas had a purpose. This…this didn't. I needed the time…to think," he paused. "I'm glad you decided to wear it," he began, offering a small smile. She twisted the ring.
"You didn't answer me earlier, why you sent it."
He sipped his tea. "I wanted you to have it. I wanted it to be safe with someone I trusted. You're the only person I trust Lisbon. I sent it as proof."
She looked away. "Proof of what, Jane?"
"Proof that I would come back," he started, then realized by the flash in her eyes that she assumed he wanted it back. "Proof, Teresa, that I was ready to…let go. They may not have been avenged by me, but they got their justice all the same. So did we all."
"Why did you leave me?" she asked bitterly. It was the question looming over them all.
His face fell. It was the way she'd stated it. There was no room for anyone else in the question. No, why did you leave us, or why did you leave the team? This was different. Different in the way she curled in on herself, protecting herself from him and his words.
He floundered, and a long silence fell over the pair. She would know if he lied, he'd taught her that much. "I couldn't face it Teresa. I couldn't face you after…after what he did to you, what he did to us. It was too much, and we both needed the space."
She flinched. She was so sick of space, of the hoping he was okay and that he wasn't in jail somewhere in a godforsaken town. She shook her head, pushing the tea away.
"You needed space Jane, you did! I don't need space, I don't want it, I hate it! I've spent every night for three months trying to figure out what I did wrong! What I keep doing wrong! Do I remind you of him? Is that why you can't look at me? Is it because I lived, and she didn't? Or is it because he made you think things and confront things you weren't ready to admit, even to yourself?"
By the end of her rant she was standing, gripping the table's edge with white knuckles, breathing erratically.
"It's everything, Teresa. It's everything and more," he whispered. "You're scarred because of me; you've sacrificed your morals and your beliefs because of me; you are a good and beautiful person, Teresa, and I ruined that."
She slammed her palm on her table violently, grabbing his attention. "I don't care about the scars Jane! You're the one so obsessed with them and I can't understand why! Did he ruin me for you? Am I marked by your darkness as you claim?" Her voice was almost manic; he could see the vestiges of insanity creeping into her eyes.
She seemed to come to a decision. He could see it working out in her countenance. She grasped the hem of her shirt and pulled it off in one jagged movement, dropping the fabric on the floor, standing breathlessly in nothing more than a simple black bra. "There, there are your scars and your darkness Jane."
Neither moved nor breathed. He followed the cruel lines that graced her arms, collarbone, and neck. Even a stranger could tell they had initially been shallow cuts, meant to threaten and control, and continued deeper. His friend was forever marked by the mad man, and it was the feeling that corresponded with that notion that hurt the most. That his lies had caused her pain they'd both live with for eternity.
When his eyes finally met hers, she understood. She could see the distress for her safety flicker brightly in his blue depths.
Lisbon sighed, stepping closer. "I'm not in danger, Jane. He's not coming back. His followers have dispersed or disappeared. I'm alive."
He stood abruptly, pulling her tightly to him. She returned the embrace, a feeling of hope crashing over her in waves. She didn't realize she was crying, or that there was water dripping on her hair. Jane was crying too.
Warm hands drew small circles on her bare back, lulling her gently.
"I'm sorry I left you again, Teresa. I have no excuse for it," he soothed. She clutched his vest in her tiny hands.
"I missed you…so much," she said, voice breaking. "I didn't think you'd come back this time."
He pulled back slightly, resting his forehead on hers. "Listen to me," he said sternly, guiding her chin up. "I will always come back to you, Teresa. You're the only good thing I have, that I've ever had. Don't ever doubt that. I told you I'd always save you, and I meant it."
She sniffed, choking on a sob. "When Red John asked you…did you mean that? I have to know, Patrick. I have to know."
He smiled softly. His hands moved from the smooth planes of her back, over her shoulders to her collarbone. He traced the scar on her neck, before covering the dangling cross and ring. "I gave you the ring for a purpose Teresa. I took it off for you. You were, you are, the only possible solution to the outcome of everything that's happened. You're the only after I ever saw. Of course I meant it Teresa. I've meant it every day for years."
Tears fell harder even as she laughed. It was a strange, overwhelming feeling. "Will you say it?" she whispered, watery and desperate.
"I'm in love with you, Teresa Lisbon."
She nodded, afraid to speak. "I love you too Patrick, so very much."
They remained that way for a long while, simply standing in each others arms, basking in the afterglow of everything that had transpired. Of everything it had taken to get to this very moment.
They were alive. They were in love.
And there was an after.
XOX
There is something
I see in you
It might kill me
I want it too be true...