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THE SOUND OF SILENCE
Volume Two
We become silent about things that matter because we can't quantify how a heart aches or loves or breaks.
- Anonymous
Lisbon can't bring herself to visit him.
How could she, when she can't even walk the flight of stairs up to the attic? When just looking at the couch in the bullpen causes a hurricane of emotions to flurry through her?
She skirts around the attic staircase, leaving as much room as possible between her feet and the steps, and stubbornly refuses to so much as glance at Jane's brown leather couch.
Her own new couch in her office gets boxes and stacks of files dumped on top, until she can just barely see the white fabric peeking through the gaps. When even that starts to antagonize her, she throws a blanket on top so that it's completely hidden.
She arranges for his - mostly unused - desk to be moved to another division, where it will actually get some use, and sends along his throw blanket as well, as an added bonus for whoever is to receive the items. She'd rather not know who that is, to be honest.
She pushes Jane's teapot and cup and saucer to the back of the cabinet, hidden behind an array of old, chipped mugs that no one will ever use.
His almost complete sudoku book gets thrown in the trash, then pulled back out, ripped to shreds in a fit of temper, and thrown back in.
And just like that, it's as if Jane had never worked for them at all.
(Or so she tells herself.)
Lisbon is, if nothing else, very good at suppressing things. Even if it's her own memories, her own feelings.
Jane doesn't exist to her.
She goes back to work, but she's assigned mainly to desk duty until she regains use of her left arm. Her physical therapy is going well, though that may be mostly to do with the fact that her pain medication leaves her feeling numb all of the time. She'll have to wear a sling around her left arm for two months, to keep the weight off of her shoulder. That'll get annoying fast - but hey, at least she'll still have an arm to use, in the end.
A week goes by.
She spends her days at the CBI building, locked in her office, reading and rereading case files and reports until the words all start to blend together, drowning out her own thoughts. Perfect.
She gets twice as much work done in half the normal time, and celebrates by going home, turning on the TV so loud she can't think (definitely not the news channel), and eventually passing out.
Van Pelt takes some time off. Rigsby goes to see her every evening after leaving the CBI, like clockwork, and Lisbon pretends not to notice. She hangs the bridesmaid dress at the back of her closet, out of sight, and refuses to think about angry princesses whose tiaras were stolen.
She attends O'Laughlin's funeral, standing beside a silently grieving Van Pelt. Her bullet wound seems to throb harder than ever, and she holds back a pained wince, squeezing Van Pelt's hand. She's not sure who the gesture is supposed to comfort, Van Pelt or herself. Van Pelt squeezes back, hard enough that the pressure on her hand distracts from the pain of her shoulder, but Lisbon refuses to let go.
Van Pelt's grip loosens after everyone else files away, and she lets go completely when only her and Lisbon are left. Her face is wet, stained with tears, and Lisbon looks away awkwardly.
Where the hell is Rigsby?
She doesn't know how to deal with this.
"Sorry, boss, I'm alright," sniffs Van Pelt, and wipes her eyes with the back of her hand.
"'S alright," says Lisbon gently but uncomfortably. "Take all the time you need."
Van Pelt nods, and clutches the hand that Lisbon has placed on her shoulder.
"Thanks," she whispers.
"Of course."
They stand in silence, broken only by Van Pelt's labored breathing and quiet sniffles. Lisbon looks at the new grave, smells the thick and heady sce2nt of fresh soil, and wonders for a fleeting second where Red John was buried. She shuts that thought down before it's even finished, in case her mind wanders to -
"Have you gone to see Jane yet?" asks Van Pelt.
Lisbon freezes, her blood running cold, goosebumps peppering her skin.
"No."
"You should," continues Van Pelt, oblivious. "I think he's worried about you."
Lisbon forces a smile that looks more like a grimace.
"Excuse me," she says, and promptly goes to throw up behind some bushes.
Two weeks go by.
Hightower calls Lisbon every few days, to both check in and to let Lisbon know how her case is going. She's been speaking to lawyers, trying to prove her innocence and get her name cleared. Lisbon is sure her trial will go well, and tells her so.
"Thanks, Teresa," replies Hightower over the phone. "I really don't know what I would have done with you."
They have become friends, of a sort, a fact that gives a little comfort to Lisbon when she lies in bed at night, unable to sleep. She's not alone in this world, even if sometimes she feels like she couldn't be lonelier.
"It's no problem, ma'am," says Lisbon with a genuine, albeit tiny, smile.
"You don't have to call me ma'am, you know," teases Hightower. "I'm not technically your boss. For now," she adds hopefully, and Lisbon surprises herself by letting out a laugh.
"I'm sure you will be soon," she says, tucking her cell phone between her right shoulder and her ear as she searches in her purse for her car keys. "You've been speaking to Ardilles, right?" she asks.
Hightower seems to know what the question is really about, even if Lisbon isn't consciously aware of why she asked.
"Yes. He's been great. You should really talk to him about Jane's trial," she suggests carefully.
Lisbon drops her keys.
"Sorry, ma'am, I just reached my car, so I gotta go," she says.
Hightower sighs, but doesn't press the issue.
"Okay. Nice talking to you, Teresa."
"Yeah, you too," she replies, and hangs up.
She picks up her keys and sits in her stationary car for almost an hour before she feels stable enough to drive home.
Three weeks go by.
She's cleared to go out in the field again, although there are limitations - no dangerous situations that would require the use of weapons or bulletproof vests. She relishes in the chance to get out of the CBI building, away from any potential reminders of Jane.
It's a Thursday when she goes with Rigsby to talk to the recent widow of their newest case. The talk doesn't go so well, considering the widow is experiencing so much grief she is literally speechless.
"Did that seem weird to you?" Rigsby asks as they head back toward her car.
Lisbon feels the sunlight on her face and tilts her head back, closing her eyes, enjoying the fleeting warmth that settles over her cold bones.
"What?" she murmurs back, distracted.
"She didn't say a word. Is that normal?"
He's frowning thoughtfully, as if the question is about more than just the widow. Lisbon fails to see what he could be thinking about, though, so she just shrugs.
Honestly, with the sun on her face and the green grass below her feet and the smell of salt in the ocean air, she couldn't really care less about the case right now. Her mind is slow and hazy, her thoughts coming lazily.
"Yeah, sometimes," she replies. "People react differently to grief. It could take a while for her to learn to cope with it. Or she could be in shock," she adds as an afterthought, not really paying attention.
"Shock," repeats Rigsby, still frowning.
"Yeah. There's a bunch of different ways to exhibit shock. Sometimes people just aren't able to speak until they get over it."
They're just reaching the car when Rigsby asks, "D'you think Jane's in shock?"
Her heart gives an odd thud, and she stops walking immediately.
"What?"
"Jane," repeats Rigsby, turning around to find he's left her behind. "He's not speaking either. Haven't you been to see him?"
Lisbon shakes her head. Her heart is pounding so hard she feels sick, but she tries to cover it up with nonchalance.
The sun on her face is no longer pleasant. It's burning her, overheating her skin, making her feel faint and flushed. The salt in the air is raw against her lungs.
"I haven't had time," she lies, before pressing, "What do you mean he's not speaking?"
Rigsby looks perplexed by the fact that Lisbon hasn't gone to see Jane, but he shakes himself out of it and shrugs.
"Exactly what I said," he replies candidly. "Apparently he hasn't said a word since... since he's been there. Maybe he's still in shock too?"
"Maybe," she repeats distractedly, her mind now working so fast she hardly has time to spare on paying attention to Rigsby. "Hey, you wanna drive?"
She throws her keys at him before he can reply and gets in the passenger seat. Rigsby looks surprised but pleased - Lisbon never gives up her car keys - and he gets in the driver's seat, starting the engine.
"You alright, boss?" he asks, shooting her a look before reversing out of the driveway.
Lisbon realizes her eyebrows are furrowed so deep she's giving herself a headache, and she deliberately smooths out her face.
"Yeah, 'm fine," she says lightly.
Rigsby, bless him, naively believes her lie, though he leaves her to her thoughts during the drive back.
She heads to the bullpen, so distracted she almost bumps into people twice. Her feet start automatically skirting around the stairs leading to the attic, giving the steps as wide a berth as possible, before she hesitates.
She pauses at the foot of the staircase and looks up. She's not sure how long she stands there, weighing her options, but Bertram passes by twice, and shoots her an odd look each time.
The second time he stops next to her, frowning with bemusement, but she hardly even notices.
"Everything okay, Agent Lisbon?" he asks, raising his eyebrows.
Lisbon snaps out of her stupor and shakes her head quickly.
"No - yes - I mean, yes, sir, everything's fine. I was just going to get something from the attic. Sir."
She gestures to the stairs, and he nods, his eyebrows still raised.
"Okay, well, I'll let you do that," he says slowly, looking at her as if she's lost her marbles.
She flushes, and hesitates again for a second, but the decision's already been made. Bertram's still waiting for her to go upstairs, so unless she wants to take back her words she's going to have to do it.
She puts her foot on the first step, then takes the other steps at a near sprint, reaching the top before she can change her mind. She looks back, and sees Bertram blink before shaking his head and leaving with a shrug.
It's just her now.
She eyes the attic door but can't bring herself to open it.
She chews on her lip with clouded eyes, then berates herself for being a coward. Her fingers stretch around the handle, push it down and forward, and suddenly the door is open. She swallows, steps inside and closes the door behind her.
She lets out a breath she hadn't known she was holding.
The attic is silent.
It's also dusty, maybe even a little moldy, and yet underneath it all she can... smell him. Just the barest hint of... what is that smell? Bergamot? She breathes in deeper, hoping to catch a trace of it, and finds that the scent assaults her senses, making her reel.
Her chest aches. Her stomach is rolling. Her head is pounding, and she's breathing in deep gasps, unable to get enough air in her lungs.
She can't breathe, she can't breathe -
She stumbles forward and sits on the makeshift bed, hunching over and pressing hard against her chest. She can feel her heart racing under her palm, in time with the pounding of her brain, as she struggles to get her breathing under control.
She tastes salt and realizes her face is wet.
This is ridiculous.
She cannot be losing control over something as simple as entering a room.
But the truth is that she has spent the last month refusing to think about him, and now she is suddenly surrounded by Jane.
And... she misses him. So much that it physically hurts.
The room is dark and empty, and she pictures Jane lying here by himself, stewing in thoughts of Red John and murder and revenge.
She clenches her eyes shut and breathes in deeply, once, twice.
She lies down, rests her head on the pillow, and imagines that somehow by being in here, she is closer to him.
No. She doesn't want to be closer to him.
Except she does.
No. She shouldn't want to be closer to him.
He's a murderer. He killed a man in cold blood.
He's killed before, a treacherous part of her mind whispers. Why do you care now?
That was different. That was a panicked last-ditch attempt to save her life in the heat of the moment. This was... premeditated. Planned and executed coldly.
He's a killer. He has taken a life.
But he has also saved her life. Given her leaping origami frogs. Danced with her to her favorite song. Bought her an emerald necklace - and returned it without complaint when she couldn't accept. Snuck a pony into the CBI building for her birthday...
And... it sounds like he needs help.
She leaves an hour later, tired and emotionally drained. She aches.
And she decides that maybe, just maybe... it might be time to visit Jane.