Sleeves Stained Red
2
A/N: I'm not hugely satisfied with this chapter. Jane is definitely not my cup of tea to write (ha ha:). He's someone I'm never exactly sure how to even attempt to master. But while waiting for Sandy to make land fall I needed a challenge of sorts to pass the time during mandatory curfew. Between Irene and Sandy I'm questioning my judgment in moving to New Jersey.
The sun has long since set, the sky stripped of all color. All that's left is a soft silvery glow that deepens the shadows and defines what should be bright. It leaves the room coated in a leaden haze that emphasizes and softens every edge and angle.
It's not until you feel her blush rather than see it that you realize you've nearly lost the light. To your delight her embarrassment has her leaning further into you in search of a way to protect her nervously flushed profile from your overly observant gaze.
And you're sure she's hoping you've missed the fact that her eyes are indeed still full.
You want to tell her there's no need to hide. But you're not sure you can manage to work the words past the emotion in your throat. So you stand as you stood before, tucked within each other. There's no question she feels your erratic heartbeat, its literally pounding in her ear. She takes it as a sign of equality and you feel her relax. And within your next few breaths she releases you and steps back.
You watch her swipe away a few wayward tears with more force than necessary. You know she hates a public display of emotion. You can understand her need for a strongly enforced façade when she's working and for the longest time that's where the road ended for you.
She needs to know that things have changed, that the only similarity between the man you were and the one you're going to be is that you both need her. You respect who she is without boundaries just as she knows who you are without judgment.
You've spent a small portion of the last three days laying to rest every part of your life Red John has touched, and the majority of it figuring out if who you really are is someone good enough for the woman standing before you.
You've shared more downs than ups these last few months, and it shakes you how devoted she's remained. She's loyal without fault and you wish there could be a time and place to go back to and do so much differently.
There's not a single memory you posses of another person offering so much devotion.
You're engulfed in a need to banish her tears so you finish drying her cheeks and find you can't seem to stop your hands from touching so you smooth her bangs back with a much gentler hand than hers. You give in to the need to simply feel and run the backs of your fingers along the now fading flush, you continue down her throat, and then back to cradle her head in your hand. Her eyes close in a reflex laced in trust and a little bit of something else. They open wide again as you lift one hand only long enough to remove the band from her hair. It flows like water over her slender shoulders and over your hands as well. The cinnamony scent of it invades your senses and spreads like fire through your veins.
She watches you with a hawkish gaze, her eyes piercing and unsure. Yet you're nearly positive they're filling with something more like need. You feel her shift ever so slightly, and you force yourself to take a step back. It's been longer than you can remember since you've had to enforce control of this caliber.
This isn't the place for a first of such magnitude.
You take her face in your hands again and pull her closer, hoping to convey your opinion without words. You let your lips rest along her hair line a few seconds longer then you should, and then you linger a little longer still.
There's something comforting and undeniably familiar in your shared embrace and it's coupled with the slightest hint of an emotion you were positive you left for dead over a decade ago.
"Home." You breathe the single word into her hair line, your lips graze her skin and you're given your first taste of what is most undeniably Lisbon. She nods and you can feel her smile along the palm of your hand before she untangles herself from you. The shadows are heavy now but you're sure she's still smiling as she attempts to the tame mahogany strands you've just released from their confinement.
She loves you. You're almost sure she always has and you're pretty sure you've always known.
But what you're most afraid of is whether or not who you really are, will ever be good enough for who she is.
You can't remember a time when there wasn't a greater force demanding your attention. And you know you've always been the greater force demanding hers. Your mind had been so consumed with revenge that when it was finally validated all the emotion your heart stored up came crashing down scrambling your senses. Sure over the years you've felt a gentle stirring in your chest that could only be known as affection but never would you even think that one day you'd be capable of ever feeling this way again.
From the very beginning she was nothing but a tool, a light to guide your way, a soft hearted soul who would part oceans for you. She rarely demanded and always offered. Offered any and everything she could to help broaden the horizon between your pain and acceptance.
She would never stoop so low as to pick up the scattered pieces of you, but she would gently push and shove them close enough together to help you find your own way to mend.
She straightens her hair, her blazer and desk. You watch the woman you've finally found slide seamlessly back behind the badge.
"I'll meet you at the elevator." You tell her as you collect your cup and saucer. She nods and smiles as she retrieves her gun and shield from the side drawer. She smiles and it's full and fierce and it's the first time in a while it's been real enough to reach her eyes.
The sight of her joy helps to further loosen the first that's been clenching your heart.
You leave the blue duo in the sink, something you've never made a habit of and fear will be scrutinized come Monday morning. You'll worry about it then. You refuse to keep her waiting.
You make a quick stop for your go bag. You hope she doesn't consider it to presumptuous. She did after all ask you to stay.
She's patiently waiting, briefcase in hand, the call button glowing subtly beside her. The elevator arrives, the doors slide open as you reach her side. She smiles at you, and when she sees the bag the smile receives a notch of shyness. It dawns on you then, you've made no promises and declared nothing, and as always she's asking nothing of you.
There's a need in you for vindication, not your own of course but hers. For once words escape you, and you suddenly find the passion inside you taking over.
The doors slide shut and you turn to her. She mirrors your actions, but you don't give her a chance to react. Your bag hits the floor, your hands take hold of her hips and lift her clear off the floor. She's slender as a willow and weights next to nothing. Her bag slides soundlessly out of her grasp and her slender limbs wrap around you, ankles and wrists crossed where you can't see. Her breathing shallows as her heart hitches and you once again release her hair from its hold, pressing her back flush to the wall. Her hands are tangled in your hair and her eyes meet yours briefly before she closes the last few inches between you.
Her lips brush your cheek before her teeth gently graze your earlobe. Your hips react without a thought and you release a moan that's been hovering at the apex of your throat all night.
"Lisbon." Her name comes out through your teeth as you clench your jaw in defense and tangle your hands in her hair. You take hold of it gently and pull her face back into view.
"Lisbon," Your voice is gentler this time, not without effort, she has to know how badly you're trying.
She mirrors your movements and takes your face in her hands. Her fingertips brush your cheek bones and her thumbs graze your lips.
"Jane, please," Her stare becomes most thorough. "kiss me."
A/N: I want to admit, the elevator idea was not my own. It was hinted at in a story that's a favorite of mine. So I thank Starry19 for its implications at the end of "Of Anger and Forgiveness" and for writing so beautifully that it hinders my ability to do much more than read and reread. I greatly hope you don't mind.