When he finally arrived at the crime scene, the first thing Jane saw was the coroner, with a closed black bag, bringing a body away. And he came back.
Just like when he found his family, he felt like dying. History was repeating itself, in the most terrible way. Once again he had failed someone. Once again someone had died because of him. Once again he had lost someone he loved.
Teresa. Lisbon was gone, and he had never told her. His last words to her had been of anger. She had died thinking of him poorly, not knowing why he really regretted his choice to share his list with her. Not because he didn't trust her. Not because he wanted to keep her out, have Red John all to himself like he had told her so many times since they met.
No. He only regretted this choice because it had meant enraging Red John. Because Red John knew. He always did. He was always, always one step ahead. And now… now the killer had proven himself right. He told him until I'll catch you, right? Well, he could toast now. The monster had won. Patrick Jane was as good as dead. And this time, there was no turning back.
Embraced by the night, lulled into a sense of madness by police radios and lights, he collapsed on his knees on the grass of the old, abandoned house. He sobbed, trying his best to fight back the tears. But it was pointless. Nothing mattered now: the world could think what it wanted of Patrick Jane, Red John could do too, because he didn't care any longer. About nothing, anything. What sense had life, when she was gone? Because of him?
And she hadn't known. He had just told her once, and she had died believing that he had lied. That the mistress of a serial killer- a bait – mattered to him more than she had ever done. Because of him. It was always because of him.
A small hand massaged his shoulder, tried to bring him back, but he just kept sobbing, shaking his head, still holding his phone like for dear life. He realized that he still had it just in that moment, and so Jane did the only thing that made sense to him: he called her number, until it went to voicemail again. Once again he heard her voice, but this time it was so different… Lisbon felt almost cheerful, proud, she was so, so… so alive. Not like the cold, dead body in the coroner's van. She was gone because of him, and all he had left of his love were memories and her voice, and even that, one day, would be gone too.
"Jane…." He shook his head again as the agent called his name, crying openly like he was a frightened little child, but the cop didn't stop, and kept shaking him like her life depended on it. "Jane, Jane, please…."
And it was in that moment that he knew he had lost it. Lost his life, lost his sanity, because he had heard her voice. Scared like only that day in his villa, he slowly turned toward the cop kneeling at his back, and the breath died in his throat. Either he was crazy, or he had been wrong all his life about the afterlife, because there was just no way he could have been that lucky.
Because she was there. And she was alive. Teresa.
Without a second thought, he just took her in his arms, and held her with such a strength he knew he was going to hurt her; but he didn't care. If there was going to be a bruise… then she was really there.
Teresa reciprocated his embrace, and still sobbing, wetting her with his tears, he buried his face in her raven hair. She was trembling, and had goose-bumps all over her body, and he could feel it through the soft fabric of his shirt like she could feel his sobs like she was the one crying.
After few minutes, they finally parted, and he started to stroke the soft skin of her face, still crying, and with a crazy, goofy smile of desperation on his face, while he tried to read her, tried to focus on everything, to understand what had happened, and how he could remedy. And mostly, if he could it to begin with.
He took in her appearance for the very first time. Lisbon had lost the clothes she was wearing the same day, and she was dressed in some kind of light blue scrubs. She was pale and frightened, and when he held her again, he realized that she smelt like iron and that there were small red dots all over her face, just like a child after it had taken away the maquillage badly. He opened his mouth to ask her what had happened, but she simply shook her head, and put a finger on his lips. Jane got it, and closing his eyes, he kissed her index, taking her hand in his one.
"He killed Partridge" She simply said, her eyes focused on the coroner van, still parked on the side of the road. He could have killed you he would have wanted to say, but he kept quiet- if was what she had silently asked him, after all.
"Uhm…I want to go home. Can you…." She asked, shaking like a leaf in the wind, and embracing herself. This time it was time for Jane to shake his head.
"No, it's not safe. I think a motel would be safer for a couple of days" he said. He wanted to ask her to join him, to follow him to his room so that he could always keep an eye on her, but he didn't. Teresa had too much going through her mind right now, and he still didn't know how she felt about… well, about everything.
She nodded, and he walked her to his car. He had often, in the past, guided her with a an hand on the small of her back, but he felt that this time it wasn't going to be enough. He needed to be closer, to have more contact, so he took her under his arm, like her was protecting her with a wing, with a cocoon. She welcomed the sensation, leaning against his frame. Teresa inhaled his scent, so unique. Jane, tea, old car, and just…just him. She didn't know how she could explain him, but his scent, it just made it more real. Jane was there. And she was alive.
They arrived in a small motel a few miles from Sacramento few hours later, acting like wanted criminals, changing roads several times in case someone was following them, with a fresh change of clothes for Teresa; despite his innermost desire, Jane booked two rooms, but when he walked her to her own, as soon as he turned to leave, she grabbed him for a sleeve, and forced him to turn. Jane got immediately the hit, and followed her inside. She didn't need to say that she was sorry, to beg, to explain herself. He knew all too well what she was going through, and he was happy – and yes, proud too. Teresa had never liked asking for help- there was a reason she had raise basically on her own her brothers – and yet here she was. Admitting that she wasn't the strongest that there was, that she needed help, contact.
He sat on the bed- king sized, he noted – and looked around whistling and trying to be nonchalant as Teresa entered the bathroom and took a long, and he suspected, steamy, shower. He didn't enter because he knew she had limits and there were things she wasn't going to tolerate, but he knew that something was wrong when he heard her sob. She kept doing so for a long time, and even if finding the butchered body of Partridge had to be terrible for her, he knew there was something else too, something she wasn't telling him. But he wasn't going to force her to talk: he knew Teresa, and he trusted her. Trusted her like she did him. She was going to tell him everything, eventually. Because of their trust, because it was the only right thing to do. But on her schedule. Only when she was truly, fully ready to do so. Hell, he owed her that at least. Hadn't she waited for months his return from Vegas? For him to tell her everything?
Once again he was waken up from his reverie by her hand, and when he lifted his gaze to meet her eyes, he saw them teary. Still shaking out of fear, but of a different kind, she lowered her face, and tentatively touched his lips with her own. Jane mad to move away, but she shook her head, closing her eyes.
"Jane, I… Please" she told him. "He could have killed me. And… Please. Don't make… I don't want to regret you." She opened her eyes, and he did the same, their gazes once again meeting. Jane took her hand in his own, and kissed every finger, every knuckle, and then he moved to her arm. He brought her palm on his crazy heart, and with an hand on the back of her neck, he lowered Lisbon until she was straddling his hips.
"Jane, I…" she started to tell him as she worked his shirt. There were so many things to say, all things she had thought about when she had seen the man with the mast and the bloody knife in that room. All regrets… how she had been mad with him, how her last words with him had been of rage, hurtful, how much she loved him and she had never admitted it (even if she hadn't denied it at loud), how, night after night, her crave for his lips, his touch, had just increased, how she had been jealous of Lorelai, how much she had always wanted to be the one he would have slept for first after… after his wife.
But words betrayed her. Or maybe it was just because it was Jane who was now fully naked underneath her. He knew her. And he (usually) knew how to do his job. He didn't need to hear her talking, but neither she did. His touches, his crazy, frantic kisses, their moans were telling a story that was pretty clear.
"Teresa, I'm not…" he started to try to tell her, but he couldn't. Lisbon was just shaking her head, trying to silence him, and she kept touching him, caressing his nipples, eating his lips with her owns. He was so crazy – for her, and because of what had almost happened – that he didn't know for sure what he had wanted to say. That he wasn't sure he wanted to do it now? That he wasn't so sure it was the right idea considering she was in shock? That he wasn't protected? He didn't remember. And he didn't care.
All he cared about was Teresa, moving slowly, and sensually, on top of him, her pleasure drying her out of any energy left in her tiny body, all he cared about was finding release in her, knowing that it was Teresa and she was still alive.
Afterwards, he stood in bed, and held her, both still naked, and as she slept, he could only think about one thing: he was going to make sure they both were going to get time. The eternity. Free from his –their- nightmares.