a/n: This a series of five moments that insisted they be linked together, and I hope, have made themselves into a story of sorts, but I'll let you be the judge. There is no set time period for these, but they definitely take place prior to 'Red John'. As always, I do not own The Mentalist, but if I did - oh wait! I have no complaints, because Jisbon is canon! I do, however, own the writing.
Enjoy!
i.
The darkness swallows her, chews her up and spits her out. Her limbs half numb with fatigue, she stumbles to the door of her room, studies the facade, the shabby numbers - tail of the two long gone, the paint on the shutters cracked and peeling as she fishes for the key in her pocket. She taps on the light switch just inside the door, watches the room slowly flicker into view, and deposits her bag on the small rickety desk. She's stayed in worse places, she thinks as she heads to the bathroom, shedding her clothes without compunction. Her eyes are dark in the mirror, the circles beneath them even darker against the tired pallor of her skin. A day or two and she will be home, this case will be over. There will be paperwork, maybe she'll even take an extra day off. She almost laughs at herself for that thought as she steps into the shower.
The dirt and the grime of a day spent traipsing through fields and ditches washed away, she exits the bathroom, nimble fingers hunting through the contents of her suitcase, and withdrawing an oversized t-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms, donning them quickly, her body aching for bed. She's nearly asleep, haze settling comfortably over her, weighing her down when she hears the first scream. It takes her a moment to process, and her hand is already burrowing out from under the covers and reaching for her gun when she stills. There is another shout, coming through the paper thin wall, garbled syllables, and sound of distress. No other voices, no other sounds; the man in the room next door is having a nightmare. The man in the room next - oh. Oh. Jane.
Before she can question herself, she's flinging off the covers and searching for her coat, casting it over her narrow shoulders before she's out the door. Her fists pound into his door, the pain of it barely registering in her haste, in her near panic, and she hardly notices she's been yelling, "Wake up Jane. Open up!" until the door opens abruptly and she very nearly collapses into him. They regard each other, the abrupt eerie silence enveloping them for a moment as she takes in his haggard face and wild hair. Finally she clears her throat, meets his eyes, looks away again, to his feet - bare. Tries, "I thought you might like some tea."
He nods, says "Yes, " in a voice hoarse from recent screams, steps back to let her in, closes the door behind her.
They convene in the kitchenette, study the contraption that's apparently supposed to make tea, and the corresponding instructions. He hovers over her left shoulder, breath warm on her ear, and she tries desperately not to notice.
Together, they sit on the edge of his bed and drink tea, and at some point her hand brushes his, and she leaves it there.
"You never drink tea." he notes, eyeing her curiously, and somehow, she thinks, a little less guardedly.
She shakes her head, "No."
They are quiet for another moment, and she stares into her teacup, swirls the bits of tea leaves that escaped the tea bag, blows on it, though they both know it isn't hot anymore, avoids his searching gaze.
"You're tired," he states, and her eyes flick upwards, find his for a moment, skim over his face, down to the almost controlled tremor of his hands. Then back up to meet his again, and the corner of her mouth quirks up in a wry smile. "So are you."
He frowns, opens his mouth, closes it, and she thinks perhaps she's never seen him quite so uncertain, and finally he whispers, so fervently he breaks her with each word, "Lisbon, thank you."
ii.
Lisbon isn't sure how she feels about crying. Her dad always discouraged it. "Stop that. It's weak. Do you want to be weak?" he'd say, but that, like most memories of him, leaves her with a bitter taste in her mouth. So she doesn't put much stock in it. Her therapist, the one she sees following shootings, or whenever else she's required, tells her crying is healthy, tells her it's part of the healing process. But she's never given much credence to therapists either.
The day Jane barges into her office, smug smile on his face, and slip of paper in hand, to find her wiping tears from her eyes, she simply flees. She shoots out of her chair, and brushes past him so harshly she sees him catch at the door frame to stay on his feet as she rushes down the hall. She isn't sure where she's going, just away, just anywhere other than crying in front of her consultant. Somehow she knows he won't follow her. So she let's her feet take her wherever they will. Unfortunately, her wayward feet have a mind of their own, and she soon finds herself in the attic. Jane's attic.
She pauses outside the door, presses her palm against the cool surface and hesitates, tries to justify and convince herself of something she's already intending to do. With a sigh, she slides open the heavy door and takes a step into Jane's lair, closing the door with a heavy thud behind her.
She scans the room for a moment, cataloging the nick nacks, the books, tiny desk, decrepit lamp, and makeshift bed. Oh, she's been up here plenty of times before, but never by herself. It feels different. Emptier, shabbier, colder, and more desolate without it's usual occupant.
She wanders around the room, running her finger over the spine of an ancient copy of Legend of Sleepy Hollow, makes her way over to the window and stares out at the city. It occurs to her that she could peek at his Red John work, go through the leather bound notebook lying on the desk, but she has no desire to do so. She isn't sure of her reason for being here, why she's here, in Jane's space, but that isn't it. That isn't it at all.
The city stretches out below her, tall buildings and tiny people, logjams of traffic. She can see from here what her quickest way home would be, but there are hours yet before that. Looking out, it makes her feel almost inconsequential. And she wonders what Jane thinks, what Jane sees when he gazes out this window. It dawns on her that even as she fled Jane, she has found herself here, surrounded by him. And she ponders why that is.
Her fingers slide over the rough hewn surface of the desk, over the smoother grain of the chair as she turns away from the window and crosses to the cot, and sits. Guilt chokes her for a moment, guilt at being here without his permission, among his things, at this violation of his privacy, but she forces it away. Reminds herself of all the times he's slept on the couch in her office, needled her with personal questions, rearranged her desk drawers. And speaking of the couch, bought her a new one without her consent. She does like the new one, though, (but that's not the point). It doesn't alleviate the guilt, not entirely.
She blows out a breath, tries not to think about the phone call she received from her brother a few minutes before Jane stormed into her office, tries to alleviate the tension in her neck and the pressure building in her temples with sheer willpower. It doesn't work. Her body feels heavy with fatigue, aches with it, and all she wants is to lie down, just for a little while, so she does.
The pillow smells of Jane, of woods, and earth, and the ocean, and the vaguest hint of cinnamon. It feels wrong, so wrong to be here in this way, and yet, in a way, it makes her feel better. She'll rest her eyes, just for a minute, and then she'll leave. She'll go downstairs, she'll see what Jane wanted, she'll pretend he never found her crying in her office, or that she ran away, and if she's lucky, so will he. In just a minute. She closes her eyes and sleep swallows her.
When she wakes, it's noticeably darker in the room. Her eyes fall on the little desk at the window, the evening light spilling over it and she is accosted by another image. One of a shadowed room, lonely golden haired figure hunched over the desk deep into the night, illuminated by only the tiny lamp and the weak beams of a waning moon through the window, and she recoils from it, from the stab of pain in her gut and the tears that prick her eyes.
She launches herself from the bed, fully awake now, scurries around the room, ensuring it looks as it did when she arrived. Tugs on her hair and her clothes as she stumbles out of the room and down the stairs, nearly crashing into her consultant on the way down.
"Err. I was just looking for you," she attempts, her words tumbling over each other on their way out of her mouth. And she hopes, hopes, that he's having an off day, that he'll miss her blatant cover up. His eyes roam over her for a moment, noticing, calculating, but he merely nods and smiles, "Okay."
"I. I just wanted to tell you I thought I'd send everyone home early. Get an early start on the weekend." she tells him. More fumbling, obvious lies. Is it Friday? God she hopes it's Friday.
"Okay," he says again, almost gently, and she escapes down the final few stairs before he can say any more.
The bullpen is empty, she notices as she passes on her way to her office. When she glances at the clock as she collapses into her desk chair, she realizes why. Oh no. She can't possibly have.. But she did. She covers her face with her hands for a moment and it's only as she draws the strength to open her eyes and peer through the cracks in her fingers that she notices the paper bag on her desk. Lowering her hands, she reaches out, cautiously opening and peering into the bag. A bear claw. And as she moves the bag aside, she spies a coffee. The good kind, from the little shop four blocks away.
"Oh." she breathes, wraps her hands around the cup, brings it to her lips and takes a sip. Still warm. Perfect.
Jane joins in her office shortly after. He lounges on her couch and pesters her about inane things and she protests and rebukes him. But she gives him a corner of her bear claw anyway. If he knows she'd been there, in his space, among his things, he never says.
She's pretty sure he knows.
iii.
She's been seeing Jeff for two months, and she likes him. He's kind, upstanding, dependable, and smart. He's nice to look at, too; tall, dark haired, with a bit of a hook nose, but it suits him, she thinks, as she looks across the table at him. Exactly the sort of man she always thought she'd end up with. He's a good man, and she enjoys his company, but... "Teresa, " he's saying, with a certain gravity, she notes with a trace of anxiety.
"Hm?" she responds, reaching across the expanse of yellow checked tablecloth for his hand. He lets her take it, but does not draw her closer.
"I have enjoyed getting to know you, but I think..." he begins, too formally, and she's certain he's still talking, but she can't make out what he's saying because her mind is still stuck on 'have'. And here it is, another relationship crumbling before her eyes and she'll never understand, so she asks, blurting out the word and bringing whatever platitudes he's currently uttering to a halt.
"Why?"
He releases her hand, the one she'd forgotten he was holding, and smiles at her, gently, understandingly, meaningfully - if only she knew what the meaning was.
"Because," he tells her, eyes scanning her face for a moment before he continues, "You're not available."
She gapes at him as he stands, draws a twenty from his billfold, places it on the table and collects his things.
"What's that supposed to mean?" she stutters finally, a touch of accusation in her tone.
He shakes his head, does not answer, only, "Goodbye Teresa. Be well." And then he turns away, and she watches in stunned silence as he walks out of her life.
"I'm sorry." Jane tells her, cornering her in her office the moment she returns.
She wants to lash out at him, to sting him with her harsh words, the venom in her voice. For knowing. For always knowing. But she doesn't. "Are you?" she asks faintly, as she turns away to remove her jacket and hang it over the back of her chair.
He doesn't answer.
iv.
In the middle of the night, on a winding road somewhere in the hinterlands of northern California, she reaches for his hand. She doesn't know what possessed her to do it. Where she got the courage, or the stupidity. They're in his dinky little car, the one she's come to love in spite of herself, because it suits the infuriating man beside her. He glances over at her briefly, and she doesn't need to see him to know there's warmth in his eyes. There nearly always is when he looks at her.
His thumb grazes over the back of her hand and he murmurs, "You should sleep, Lisbon. No reason for both of us to be awake."
"I could take a turn you know. Driving, I mean." she tells him, feels his fingers stiffen in her own and has to bite down on her tongue to keep in a chuckle at the scandalized expression she pictures on his face.
His next words, and the accompanying high octave he hits prove her right. "Drive my car? I don't think so." In the dim light she can make out the impassioned shaking of his head. "Now, if it was your big hunk of junk... But well, you'd be hard pressed to get me to drive it in the first place." His voice has taken on that disdainful, superior quality and even as hard as she tries, she can't contain a snort.
He turns his head for a moment to peer at her through the darkness, and she's tempted to lift a hand to his face to feel the grin she knows is there, the way he once did to her. "You're joking," he says, and he sounds so delighted and incredulous at that fact she decides that in fact, she actually wants to smack him.
"Yes, I do know how, you know." she asserts, a bit snidely, but she leaves her hand in his.
"And now I've offended you." He sounds resigned, but less than repentant, maybe even a little amused. But his fingers tighten around her own, and in spite of herself, she finds it pacifying, smoothes her ruffled feathers.
"Not really," she admits. "I don't really want to drive your stupid car anyway." She's surprised by his restraint when he doesn't counter with insistence that his car is, in fact, not stupid. Instead, his hand shifts on hers, and his thumb travels upward to find the pulse point on her wrist, and she coughs to hide her sharp intake of breath. It's innocent, she knows. Just something he does, probably not even a conscious action. The silence stretches between them, ripe with something so thick she could slice it with a butter knife, but can't quite identify. Or doesn't want to. She isn't sure which.
"I can't sleep," she blurts finally, simply for something to say, and whatever traces of humor are left in the air evaporate, and she feels the mood grow heavier.
"How come?" He asks after a pause, and she's almost surprised, because he rarely presses her, not for the important things. Oh, the silly superficial stuff certainly, but not for the things he knows she finds genuinely hard. Not anymore. And usually his encouragement isn't needed, because she finds herself telling him things, words spilling out of her mouth without really knowing why. And it's about to happen again.
"I just. I can't stop thinking about those girls," she whispers, and with those words alone, the images flood her mind, and she looks out the window as though she can turn away from them as easily as she has turned away from the man beside her.
"Catching the killer not enough, then?" he questions, and there's a hint of bitterness in his tone, but she knows it's not directed at her. Not really.
"No." she whispers, her voice barely more than a breath, but she knows he hears, knows by the way his thumb slides over her wrist and his fingers thread through her own. "No. It never is. It never brings them back. It never chases away the nightmares. But it's what I can do." You should know. She doesn't say the last part, doesn't need to because his fingers dig into hers, squeezing almost painfully. And then he stops the car and releases her hand.
Before she can recover from the surprise, he's exited the car, and she can see his dark shape through the windshield as he crosses in front, coming around to the passenger side and wrenching open the door. The light from the open door illuminates them both and she can make out every line of him for the first time in at least two hours. Suit jacket gone, tossed without heed into the back seat some time ago, white sleeves of his dress shirt rolled to his elbows, and she's fascinated for a moment by the play of muscle and tendon and bone flickering beneath the skin. His face would be blank to the unpracticed eye, to her, it is taut with a thousand different things she can see warring across his face, but can't identify.
"Get out, " he says, quietly, so quietly she isn't sure she heard him correctly. Surely he can't mean... "Get out." he says again, and this time she's sure she's heard him properly, and she's already bristling, jutting her chin and squaring her shoulders and preparing to give him a piece of her mind, bristling the way she does when inside she's quaking with terror. She's sure she hasn't said anything terribly offensive, but what if she has, what if she's wrecked something without knowing it, but he takes her hand in his, gently, so gently, and she knows she's misunderstood.
He tugs on her wrist and she lifts her eyes to his face, and finds he's smiling at her. Not the bright charming smile, or the delighted grin, the other one. The rarer one. The one she always feels vaguely privileged to see. "Come on Lisbon. Trust me." he urges, and she almost rolls her eyes, because that phrase has gotten them into more than a handful of scrapes. But she does. Of course she does, so she unclips her seatbelt and follows him around to the drivers side of the car, and allows him to open the door and escort her into the seat, hand ghosting over the small of her back. She sits there, puzzled, hands resting in her lap as he trots around to the other side of the car and slides gracefully into the seat she has just vacated.
"Lisbon," he announces with flourish, "I'm going to teach you how to drive the Citroen." She all but gapes at him for a moment, and something seems to occur to him, and he amends, " If you want."
She's already nodding, and the grin she feels stretch across her face almost hurts and she can't resist reaching for his hand again as she answers, "Yes."
v.
The air is cool on her skin as they stand on a bridge on the eastern outskirts of Sacramento, the blackness cloaking them like a shroud; the churning colors from atop the police vehicles tiny pinpricks of light from far away in the moonless night. She can't see him, could barely make out his basic shape before she turned away from him a few minutes ago to look out over the water. But she can feel him. Feel the unease rolling off him, feel every inch of the narrow space between them, feel the absence, and the closeness.
His elbow bumps hers, and again, and she turns toward him, why she doesn't know, perhaps to reprimand him, but the breath, the half formed words are stolen from her tongue as she feels the brush of his fingers on her face. She freezes, every muscle coiled, suspended in the minute void between fight and flight as his fingertips skim up her jaw, ghost over her cheekbone. Her hands are shaking at her sides, her mouth gone dry and her tongue darts out to wet her lips as she summons the fortitude to speak.
"Wh-What are you doing?" It's hardly more than a whisper, a distinct edge of panic and a tremor that makes her want to cut out her own tongue for sounding so god damn vulnerable.
She hears a sharp intake of breath, and his hand stills against her skin for a moment. She can feel him hesitate, feel his indecision, see a hundred futures for them sliding around her head, each hinging on this moment, this very second.
"Nothing, Lisbon. Nothing." he says finally, and her gut twists, and she closes her eyes against the stinging pain, watches several dozen futures spinning away and shattering, the shards tiny pebbles, pieces of a puzzle that will never be completed. Before she can step away, his other hand joins the first and he cups her face. The moment shivers, solidifies, the tension slipping away. A decision made. A future chosen. She feels his breath, warm as it fans against her face, for just a moment before his mouth finds hers in the inky darkness. She can taste the salt of his tears on his lips as he kisses her, the water rushing below them, the stars bright in the moonless sky.
a/n 2: This was written a good year ago at least, and while I gave it a quick read through and a few minor edits, I'm sure there were a few errors that escaped my attention. I hope they were not too egregious. Please leave a review and let me know what you thought of it. It helps me improve! Thank you for reading.