Thank you guys so much for the reviews and follows! I was super motivated to try for another chapter. It's weird but nice to be back in the fanfic game if only for a little while!
Jane was too keyed up to properly settle himself onto one of the Airstream's small couches. He perched on the edge of the cushion, plucking idly at the piping that ran along its front. The water had boiled, the teapot had been scalded, the WuYi yancha was steeping. Lisbon was still in the shower.
He closed his eyes and allowed himself a moment to imagine her soapy and wet, her dark hair clinging against her neck. More than a moment perhaps. "Teresa?"
No answer. A tendril of anxiety bloomed in his stomach. Was she avoiding him? Not that there was much of anywhere to go in the Airstream, but then he reckoned the past months had clearly demonstrated that they were both masters of evasion when it suited them, even when they were sitting in the same room (or the same restaurant booth for that matter).
Jane took a deep breath and squared his shoulders, willing his nervousness away. "Briefing's at two."
Their hasty departure from Florida hadn't left any time for anything more than a quick clean up in the sink at the Blue Bird. Even after his own shower, he still felt vaguely musty. For want of another option, Lisbon had agreed to shower in his trailer ("Some people don't have the luxury of an apartment anymore," she'd pointed out archly, easing any possible sting her words might have had with a soft kiss placed at the corner of his mouth.) Not that he wasn't immensely pleased to keep her as close as possible. Part of him still half-expected her to run screaming into the Texas wilderness or to simply evaporate like one of his belladonna-induced hallucinations. No, he wanted her nearby, but he knew her and he knew that all that had happened in the past days was a lot for anyone to process, least of all someone as wary of commitment as Teresa Lisbon.
The shower was still running. He stood and poured the tea into two cups, placing them on the dinette and fussing their handles around just so. On the kitchen countertop, Lisbon's phone buzzed for a time and then stopped, chiming a moment later to indicate the presence of a new message. He studiously avoided peeking at the display, which honestly required a force of will he was unaccustomed to exerting. Pike most likely. They hadn't talked about Pike yet, not really. They hadn't talked about a lot of things.
"Briefing's at…" he raised his voice, thinking she hadn't heard him over the rushing water, which chose that moment to cut off completely, leaving him to shout, "two!"
The door cracked and Lisbon poked her head into the room. "I heard you the first time," she said, smiling wryly. "This concern about things like 'time' and 'rules' is a side of you I've never seen, Jane."
"I'm sure it won't last long if that's what you're worried about," he replied lightly with a small flick of his wrist.
A faint worry line appeared between her eyebrows. "Don't go changing too much."
He regarded her seriously. "I want to show you that I'm a good bet, Teresa." After a beat, Jane cleared his throat. "I'm afraid I don't have coffee." He pulled a face at the mere thought, which caused her to wrinkle her nose in response. "Yancha is probably closest in taste, so that's what I made. Hurry up before it gets cold."
"Ah, yes, cold yancha. Wouldn't want that. Hand me my bag will you?" Lisbon nodded to where her carry-on was sitting on the couch nearest the bathroom and extended her arm expectantly.
"If I were less of a gentleman I'd make you come out here and get it yourself."
"What makes you think I wouldn't do that without you needing to resort to trickery?"
He cocked his head at her. "I'm liking this new side of you too, Lisbon. Maybe another time when we don't have..."
"A briefing at two?"
"Precisely." He dutifully retrieved her bag and handed it to her. She was watching him closely and he could see her working over things in her head. Anyone who'd known Jane for more than a week wouldn't have bought his (temporarily) reformed schtick for a second, and Lisbon had known him considerably longer than that. The truth wasn't all one thing or the other. Jane did feel a debt of gratitude to Abbott. Not only for lending his car so readily, but for questioning him about Lisbon and then standing back while Jane tried to work his feelings out for himself. True, the gesture wasn't completely altruistic on Abbott's part - it was in his best interests to maintain a well-functioning team after all - but it lacked any overwhelming clockwork sense of calculation. Abbott had done these things for Jane because he was a good man and a good boss who also wanted to run a good team.
Underneath that sense of obligation was a feeling as if a wild bird were caught up in Jane's chest. While it was certainly true that he'd meant every word of what he'd said to Lisbon, it was also true that he'd been on his own, by chance and then design, for a very long time. Having someone else in his life who mattered, who he recognized as mattering, who he didn't want to take for granted, would take some...realignment. In his own way, he was as skittish as Lisbon when it came to commitment.
"Hey," she said, placing the bag on the floor so she could reach out and squeeze his hand. She drew him gently towards her, just a bit. Her skin was warm and still somewhat damp from the shower. She smelled like his mint shampoo and that simple fact - his scent on her body - went straight to his groin with a speed he hadn't felt in ages.
"Hey," he replied. "I feel like I'm about fifteen years old again."
Lisbon bit her lip and his mouth went dry. "I'll get dressed."
"Not on my account, I hope."
"Rethinking that briefing?"
He shrugged. "Maybe." He really did have more than half a mind to pull her out of that bathroom and onto the nearest of the sofabeds.
She wavered, leaned out a little further into the room. He bent down and kissed her soundly, parting his lips when he felt the touch of her tongue. What seemed like only an instant later she was gone, shutting the door firmly behind her. "You're right, we should get to that briefing."
Disappointment he could almost taste crashed over him, followed quickly by a spark of amusement. If this was how she wanted to play things for right now, he would bide his time. Patience wasn't necessarily part of his vocabulary, but then winding her up had its attractions as well.
A nightmare, that's what it was. An absolute nightmare.
Donaldson ran his hand through his hair. How many hours had they kept him here? He felt as if there were a fine layer of grit over his eyeballs, as if every time he blinked there was a rasping sound.
He stood and circled the table in the interrogation room for what seemed like the hundredth time. "Anyone out there? Hello?"
Finally, finally, he heard the door latch click open. A serious looking man with an impeccably kept high and tight entered the room. He carried a stack of papers, a notebook, and a small digital recorder. "Sit down, please, Captain Donaldson."
Killing his first impulse to anger, Donaldson sat. It was no use flying off at the handle. He'd have to wait. The man sat across from him, setting out his papers and the recorder in a way Donaldson found oddly fussy.
"Can you tell me what's going on?"
"My name is Special Agent Jenkins. I'd like to talk about what happened last night, Captain."
Donaldson laid his hands flat on the tabletop. "I already told the MPs that…"
"I'd like to hear it from you." Jenkins opened a folder and removed a stack of photographs, which Donaldson recognized as pictures of the inside of his house. Torn to pieces.
Donaldson partially bit back a sob that still felt as if it ripped his throat raw. "Oh god. Jesus."
Jenkins laid out the pictures, seemingly ignoring Donaldson's outburst. "For example, what do you know about this?" The bedroom wall. His bedroom and Madison's. It took his eyes a moment to properly focus. Writing. There was writing on the bedroom wall. How cliche. How very. He couldn't even make out the words, couldn't make sense of them. "The invisible worm," Jenkins prompted. "Written in blood. William Blake, isn't it? What can you tell me about this?"
The Blake is from his poem "The Sick Rose" from Songs of Experience
