A/N My little thoughts on the finale. A silly piece with an hint of smut-nothing too heavy, actually, I found myself writing quite the sweet love-scene...
Barlow was wrong. It was the only thing Lisbon could think about. Not about everything, mind you. But just about a couple of tiny little details.
She wasn't scared, per se, by Jane's manipulative and secretive behavior. If she wanted to be completely honest, it was probably what really attracted her. Safe men were boring, and she was a cop, a strong and independent woman who had always looked after herself. Teresa Lisbon danced with danger, was thrilled by it. She didn't like to play it safe. She needed to be challenged, loved the unknown. Predictability couldn't do for her, that was the reason it could have never worked out with Walter in the long run.
Walter Mashburn had been a nice…pastime, if she could call him like that. A sweet release. There was just so much a woman could do and could handle on her own, and, dammit, she wasn't a saint. People could believe that, but she had cravings and needs just like any other human being. Yes, she liked to take care of things on her own, dance to the oldest rhythm of the world on her own in the security of her home, but sometimes she needed skin-skin contact.
Sometimes she needed it, the contact, the burning passion, the need of feeling even just wanted, and all those times she went looking for it she eventually found what she craved. Sometimes the release came from the arms of a strangers, sometimes it was an old lover's embrace. Other times, acquaintances, or people she had passed by and just given a look, thinking of never seeing them again.
She always felt dirty, after wards. Sleeping with strange man in unknown beds, in cheap and dirty motels, slipping out in the middle of the night before they could wake up, showering as soon as she got home to clean herself from their touches, she felt like she was a cheap fuck, a little bit more than a whore and less than a mistress.
She couldn't even remember the last time she had been kissed. She rarely allowed her man of the night to taste her lips. It was something way too intimate that in the last few years only few had experienced. It was something she couldn't have, not when her heart and soul belonged to someone else. Her body was still hers, but for how long? She wasn't sure. The guilt was starting to be too much, every time she was touched by a man that wasn't him, she felt too dirty, too impure. One, one year and an half ago it had been all right. She still had been able to do it, but now, after he had told her he loved her?
No.
Sleeping to those men when she thought that her love was unrequired was one thing, but after she heard the words, it had become impossible, didn't matter that he had denied them afterwards. It was just impossible for her to forget, didn't mind that she didn't have his memory palace at her disposal. He loved her, and now she knew it. Like she knew that he wasn't acting on those feelings out of fear.
She wondered if he was in denial, too. Did he know how much he felt when he whispered those fateful words to her, in the middle of the night? She doubted it. It felt like a spur of the moment thing, something in blurted out. But she felt it was the truth. Because… she knew him. Patrick Jane was a complicated man. He had denied himself her love- and even his love for her- because he was scared. He had to protect her, and his heart as well. He had never completely recovered from the loss of his family, she could only imagine what loosing someone else he cared about could do him. Him, a man who walked side by side with guilt and shame, feeling like his tragedy was his own fault.
People I care about, they get hurt. He kills everything that makes me happy.
How many times had she heard him saying things like those? Too many. She had lost count already. And every time the words left his lips, she felt a tiny little piece of her heart dying with him, getting , she always felt cold and alone, like a cloud of death and despair was with her all the time. There was no light any longer in her world, because that was the world Patrick Jane walked in. A world now she walked in too, more than ever. Not only because his pain was her own, but because she had never been such a target before.
Lorelei knew that they were in love with each other, even if they had never acted on it – something impossible, in Jane's eyes, with the killer still at large. And Lorelai…. She had probably told everything to her former master before being killed. Any doubt that Red John could have had about what they were for each other was now gone. If she had been a target before, she was probably now one of his main objectives.
She cried in her pillow, her body in fetal position. Holding her cross so strongly her knuckles turned white, she asked to no one in particular how long she still had before a cold blade would summon her to the land of the dead.
Darkness was embracing her, and she felt like light was no more. Only despair was left. From now on, that was how her life was going to be, always scared, always on the lookout, waiting for that moment to come. One day, sooner or later, Red John was going to get her, and she knew that there was nothing she could do about it. She couldn't prevent it, because she was the leading investigator in his case and because she and Jane were in too deep with their feelings, and she couldn't stop him. She was a trained cop, but if a whole team of CBI agents hadn't been able to stop him, how could she hope of surviving?
She couldn't, that's it.
Her life was now darkness. And she doubted that before the end would come for her, she was going to see the light, any light, again.
The seven photos were aligned on his desk, and all Jane could do was keeping staring at them with hate and rage. A new game, new rules. Everything he had done had been useless. He still had a list of suspect, and he still didn't know which one of them was Red John.
Partridge? He wasn't even sure any longer why he had put him on the list. He was too young. Hadn't he estimated that Red John couldn't be less than forty, after all? Styles? Too old. And when he had first killed, Red John had been a just a kid, according to people at Elliston Farm. Back then he was already a big gun with the cult, and definitely not a kid any longer.
Five names. Five people between the late thirties and late forties-early fifties. Five suspects. Still too many. He needed a name, just one. He needed to know, right now. He couldn't wait any longer. Not when there were new rules, not when John had promised to start killing again. Soon. And often. People he cared about. People he loved. Happy memories.
He stood up, and hit with his closed fists the makeshift desk in the attic. The pictures fell on the floor, and he didn't even looked at them. He didn't even go to pick them up. Not now. He was too mad. He hated too much all those men to even consider touching those images. One of those men was Red John. Someone who had killed everything he held dear. Someone who wanted to turn his life in utter misery and fear.
He wondered if Lisbon now understood why he often behaved like an obsessed, a maniac, when the killer was concerned. He had to be always on the lookout, constantly looking at his back, awaiting for the inevitable next strike. Now, more than ever. Everything and everyone he cared about. He loved. That made him happy. He risked losing them all. Few of them… without having experienced them at all. Because he had always been, as Lorelai too. He and Red John, weren't so different, after all. Cunning and manipulative. Smart in their own way. They could read the truth on people's faces. They knew everything.
Red John knew he loved Lisbon. He knew that Lisbon loved him back. Like he knew- and didn't cared- that they had never acted on it. Admitting his love out loud had been enough of a mistake, with the killer still at large. He had tried to deny it, take the words back, but it had been too late. Lisbon had heard them, and he had unwillingly gave her hope.
Sometimes, he wondered if his subconscious hadn't done that on purpose. He loved her, had felt that way for quite a while, but he knew he had no right to ask her to wait for him. Yes, he knew that she was in love with him, but so, what' She could fall out of love with him too, she just had to want it. But at the end, he hadn't been able to make her hate him enough. He told her the words because he was into her way too deep. He wanted, needed to beg her to at least know that a part of him wanted to be on the same page as her. They were in love, and they both wanted to have a relationship with each other, but now wasn't the time. It was too dangerous with Red John still at large. But… he needed to let her know he wanted it, that he desired for her to wait for him, if she wanted him. That whatever she desired could be hers, if she was willing to give him time and space.
But he wasn't so sure that they were going to have that moment. Time and space may not be an option any longer. Red John was sure about how they felt about each other. And he wanted to destroy everything and everyone who had ever made him happy. And Lisbon, after Angela she was the only one who had given him a sense of peace, of love. The desire to be a full, healed man again. He wanted to be that man, and deep down, he had always thought that one day he was going to have that option, that it was inevitable. In due time, it would have happened. But now, his dreams and his future, his second shot at life, love and happiness was at risk.
She was at risk.
He had played his cards too early, he had lowered his guard, and now Lisbon was walking with a target on her neck more than ever. He had no doubt that Red John would eventually go after her. Now, it was just a matter of time, place and occasion. He would strike when they didn't expect him to, and he would break all of them, the whole team. Mostly, though, him.
Lisbon dead, because of him. Because they had dared to love each other, despite never confess fully that feeling. No. It was something he couldn't fathom. He knew that there was no turning back from something like that. Surviving his family had been hard enough, but without Teresa too, with her blood added to the one already on his hands… no, no way. It was impossible.
Panic settled in him fully, and bloody eyes went looking at the nighty horizon outside the window. All dark, graced by just the street lights and the bulbs inside the homes, Sacramento looked peaceful, quiet. Even safe. But no one could be safe with Red John out there, ready to kill again. Often. Soon.
Lisbon wasn't safe. All alone at home. At the mercy of his enemy, a killer hell-bend on destroying him and everything and everyone he cared about. His beloved ones. His happy memories. He was risking losing them all, and Lisbon, he wasn't sure he could afford losing her. Hell, he knew he couldn't, but did she? He wasn't so sure. They had never talked about it, it had been their silent agreement, but now, there were new rules. He needed to change them too: if Red John was done playing by them, he was going to change the game too. Lisbon needed to know where he stood with her, and he needed to be there with her. For her. It was the only way to keep her safe. And in that moment, she was alone at home. Unsafe. Unprotected. Far away from him, all because they had been too stubborn in the past to just be actually honest with each other. Too scared.
He was at her place in less than twenty minutes, thanking a God he didn't believe in because he hadn't died in a car accident on the way there. There was still too much to do, to say. He needed to keep her safe. And the only way to do so, was keeping her at his side. Always. He knew there was going to be hell to pay for breaking and entering her place, but he didn't care. He was doing it for her. One way or another, he was going to make her see the reason.
Slowly, feeling a bit like a creep, he walked to her room, her door slightly ajar. The nightstand lamp was on, filling the room with a soft glow, and he just pepped in, and as soon as he did, he immediately regretted it. Because the sight that welcomed him, made him lose all semblance of control, trashing every good intentions he may ever had about Lisbon.
Because Teresa Lisbon was in bed, thinking about him. And sighing, while pleasuring herself.
There was one thing Barlow hadn't been wrong about: she often thought about Jane late at night, or in the early hours of the day, when in bed. Sometimes she did so because she was worried- God only knew how many times she had prayed for him during those awful six months, when he was In Vegas, or in the last week. Back then, she wanted for him to be safe. Lately, she wanted for him to find peace, closure.
Right now, she just wanted him. Body, soul, it didn't matter. She craved him. His presence, his touch. How did his lips feel? Or the touch of his fingers? How did he like to make love? Was he a sweet and tender lover, or harsh? Did he like it rough? Yes, she was a believer. Yes, she was Catholic. And yet, she wanted that man. She thought about him, a lot. In the privacy of her room, deep down in her mind, Teresa Lisbon was no prude.
She bit her lips, and decided to give up, like so often she did. Sighing, with her breathing already harsh, she lifted her jersey, and threw it somewhere on the carpet, staying only with a small, indecent lacy black and gold tong. Desire and need was running through her body, liquid fire lapping at her lower half. She needed to end it, now, soon. She didn't want to tease herself, didn't need foreplays. She wanted the real deal, or the next best thing.
Just thinking about it got her all wet and spicy, and she decided to take advantage of the situation. She grabbed the nipple of one breast with her left, and moved slightly aside the tongue, penetrating immediately afterward herself with two fingers of her right hand. She skillfully fingered herself, not taking anything inside. She cried and cried, shouting Jane's name as in her mind he was the one playing with her, skimming her aroused and engorged clit. She rode her hand with wild abandon, as wild and enthusiast as rarely before, until… it happened. Something in her snapped, and she felt it, an orgasm as strong as never before. It was like her body and soul were divided, like she was having an out of body experience.
Feeling happy and satisfied, she rode out, lazily pleasuring herself, no longer gripping her nipples, and when she took away her hand from her pussy, she found out it was wet, very, very wet, and there was no way that was just arousal. She stared at her glistering fingers, and sucked her middle, moaning at closed eyes as she realized what had just happened. It was less salty, a little bit more sweeter… but she knew the taste. She had loved it. She still did.
Oh, until that moment she had always assumed that female ejaculation was just a myth! She had had many orgasms in her life, but she didn't remember having ejaculating before. Actually…. She was positive it was the first time. God, she grunted. If only thinking about screwing Patrick Jane had that effect on her…. she couldn't fathom what actually screwing him could mean for her body. And that was when she saw him, in the corner of her room, slowly walking toward her bed, eyes as big as saucers, dilated pupils, throbbing veins on his neck.
Jane.
He didn't say a word, but as soon as he got at her side, he leaned on her bed, and grabbed her lips. It wasn't tentative, but yet it was slow, very sensual in nature. She felt like he could make her came again just like that, with those awfully skilled lips of his. And he wasn't even touching her… the lips were the only point of contact between their painfully aroused bodies, his light headbordstubble was living burnings on her skin, but she didn't care. If not else, it aroused her furthermore. It was like the light pain was evidence that she wasn't dreaming, that it was real. Jane was there, with her, and they were finally going to consume the burning desire that had increased from the small flame of that very first day, when their met and she knew she was in troubles.
She decided to remedy that, and run her right hand along the length of his body, palming his chest, his face, and then grabbing him for those wild, soft curls of his, and that was when he inhaled deeply. She guessed that her scent, the musk of her arousal, of her ejaculate had reached his nostrils, making him crazy with want.
Jane decided to go for the jugular, as to say, and jumped on the bed. He made her sat against the headboard, and without stopping kissing her all over her beautiful features, he got rid of his clothes. She smiled in the kiss at his actions. Jane wasn't obsessed or too crazy, he wasn't too forceful with his clothes, he looked more like a shy teenager about to have his way with a woman for the first time.
"Let me" she told him, whispering the words in his ear before biting his lobe and making him grunt. She giggled, and she didn't know why, but this action made Jane blush.
Oh, yes. It was nothing like what Lorelai had told her about her time with Jane. The serial killer's mistress had been just a whore in Jane's eyes, but with her… right now she knew they were about to make love, express with their bodies the deepness of their feelings. It was going to be a communion of the body and of the soul, like a marriage, a wedding night. It was going to be their silent vows to each other.
Slowly and methodically, without breaking eye contact not even once, she helped him getting rid of his clothes, one item a time, until he was fully naked right before her. His penis was fully erect, she had felt it when she had helped him getting out of pants and underwear, but she didn't care about how it looked like or his dimensions. It was Jane. It was the only thing that mattered.
She moved her hands to her own panties, but he shook his head, and took from her, looking at her in the eyes like she had done while stripping him bare, then he took her right hand, and guided it to his left, to his ring finger, silently asked her to remove the precious item there. She took away his wedding band, with tears in her eyes, and once the memory was safely on her bedside table, she did the same thing with her cross.
He cupped her face, and kissed her, smiling, but she could feel his tears wetting her face- tears that were soon joined by her own. They were tears of many things, regrets for the wasted time, fear for what was to come, happiness for what was finally happening.
"Patrick…" she moaned between gasps as he kept nipping at her tender skin. "My Patrick.."
"Yours…." He told her, kissing her deeply, his hands running in her long, dark hair, soft as silk, as dark as the night. He couldn't stop looking at her, couldn't stop crying. It was too much, it was too deep, too beautiful. He had never believed that he could have felt the same again, being that much in love… it was the same as with Angela, and yet, so different.
"And you, Teresa…." He said, rolling the z between his teeth, like an exotic word "You are… mine."
He pointed the last word entering her, still both sitting, never, ever breaking eye contact. It wasn't his favorite position, and he knew that this time around things were going to end sooner rather than later for the both of them, but for once in his life, he didn't care. This wasn't sex. It wasn't about passion, lust. They were going to have time for that. Right now, they were celebrating love and life. And it was going to be enough.
One hand on the small of her back, the other around her right hip, he helped her creating the rhythm, he helped her doing things on her own. Her eyes were glassy and deep, shining as the most beautiful emeralds he had ever seen and she rode him with small, slow circles, and all he could do was looking at her with a damn stupid and happy go lucky smile on his face.
When he felt the pressure around his penis, he knew she was going to have her next orgasm, and he started to move too, increasing just a little their pace. She sighed, gasping, his name on her lips like a mantra. He felt he was ready to come undone too, and decided to speed things along. From the small of her back, his hand moved the sensitive nerves, pressing just there, enough on that special point that made her going over the edge with just a purr against the skin of his neck, like she was a kitty. Despite the need to follow her, he still found the energy to grin, amused and satisfied. He had done this. He was one lucky bastard. He was still lazily penetrating her, and as soon as he felt the tall-tale sensation in his testicles, he left her warm, liquid heath, and taking care of himself, he allowed his ejaculate to spill on her covers.
Just like that, he was a silly, shy teenage boy once again. Something that made her giggle once again, and that made him blush. She liked it. It was good seeing Jane losing a bit of control. And to know that she had been the one doing that…. It was even better.
"Sorry. I didn't have a condom with me. And, you know… pills aren't always that effective, and…" he admitted, his voice low. It came to mind that maybe it hadn't been a good idea empting himself on her sheets, since she was supposed to sleep there, and he assumed that Lisbon red his mind, because she laughed, and took his hand in her own, guiding him outside her room, moving them into her guest bedroom, where a cold, and yet clean, bed was waiting for him…
"That's ok, Jane, it's been sweet." She said. And on these words, she cuddled him, falling asleep in his arms, with Jane caressing her skin and looking at her.
Whatever it took, he was always going to look after her. To keep her safe. Waiting for the day Red John would be out of the picture, and they would finally be free.