A/N: Here we go, folks. Less calm, more storm.
Thank you for the reviews…I'm all smiles.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Okie dokie? Okie dokie.
Burnt Offerings
Chapter Three
Jane awoke to the unfamiliar sensation of a soft body curled against his. Opening his eyes, he was greeted with the sight of Teresa Lisbon burrowed into his chest. Both of his arms were wrapped around her; he had no idea when that had happened.
He was still on top of the covers, and still wearing his shoes. It didn't matter, not really, but he smiled anyway.
Lisbon's alarm clock told him that it was too early to be awake, but there was nothing for it. His insomnia didn't make exceptions for nights that he was about as emotionally exhausted as any one person could be.
For one whole hour, maybe a little longer, he had thought he'd lost her. Thought that the next time he saw her, she would be a crumpled body on the floor, butchered beyond all recognition.
He wouldn't have survived it.
And then she walked back in the door, and he could breathe again. His body had acted completely of its own accord, pulling her into an almost violent hug. He needed to physically feel her, hear the sound of her heart.
She was here. She was fine.
He never thought he'd get so upset over her actually buying food.
Lisbon frowned suddenly in her sleep, fingers knotting in the fabric of his shirt. He realized he had been unconsciously tightening his arms and that it was disturbing her otherwise peaceful slumber. Forcing his muscles to relax, he watched her face until it was tranquil again.
The smart thing to do would be to get out of bed, to disentangle himself from Lisbon, and go back to his relentless pursuit of Red John.
It seemed more vital than ever.
He couldn't understand the psycho's apparently abrupt obsession with Lisbon. She'd been working with him for almost a decade; why target her now? It was fairly obvious he cared about her - he'd shot a man for her, for God's sake. There had been a host of less dramatic instances where he'd proven that, too.
Why would he go after her now?
Red John was a frighteningly smart man. He didn't make many mistakes. Killing Lisbon would be a mistake. For Jane, the game would be over. He would be done playing. In point of fact, he would probably be locked away somewhere, either because he would have totally lost his mind, or tried to kill himself, or both.
It was not something he'd be able to recover from. Sophie Miller had put him back together after Angela and Charlotte, but he hadn't healed, not really. The cracks were still there, and losing Lisbon would be his undoing. There would be no coping, no figuring out how to live.
Strange, though, he more he thought about it, the more he wondered if his closeness to Lisbon was the reason she was still unharmed. As much as he had tried to put distance between them on multiple occasions, he'd never been able to hold to his resolution.
It was an interesting idea... In the beginning, he'd held his walls up so tightly that no one saw anything past what he wanted them to see. There was no sense in taking Lisbon then; she meant nothing to him. Things had changed over the years, subtly, gradually.
When he'd shot Sheriff Hardy, Red John would have become aware that he wasn't willing to idly stand by while she was killed. Of course, he could have assumed the same could be said for most of the people Jane worked with. It was probably even true. But Red John would have wondered, just a little, if he cared especially for Teresa Lisbon.
By the time Vegas had happened, and Jane had proven the lengths he was willing to go to protect her, it was too late. Red John finally knew that he'd had the audacity to fall in love again, and that Teresa Lisbon was off-limits if he wanted Jane to continue playing along.
The more he considered it, the more he wondered if his theory was right.
But then why was there a grinning red face adorning Lisbon's living room?
Lisbon was absolutely correct in what she had said the night before. If Red John wanted her dead, she would be dead. He wouldn't have bothered to leave a message, telegraphing his intentions. He would have either waited, or he would have come back.
His best guess was that Red John had figured out a way to use her in some way, and last night was a malignant warning that he had finally turned his attention towards Lisbon.
It felt like a cold fist was clenched around his heart.
He peered intently at the woman in his arms again. Stripped of her badge and gun, she looked so young, and so very vulnerable. Slowly, careful not to jar her, he leaned down and rested his forehead lightly against the crook of her neck for just a moment.
It was too tempting, though, and he pulled back before his control shattered. He was still clinging to the idea that maybe she would find someone not so damaged, someone able to give her everything she deserved.
Someone that would take her far, far away from him and the demons that haunted his every step.
It was probably a futile hope; he knew Lisbon better than anyone, knew her capacity for love, forgiveness, and loyalty. She had wasted an awful lot of those qualities on him. On someone who didn't deserve what she had given him at all.
He frowned. No, he certainly didn't deserve her.
Gently, eyes never leaving her face, he unwound himself from her small body and stood up. She immediately rolled into the space he had just occupied, and he couldn't help the tender grin that spread across his face.
Once he reached her kitchen, he remembered that she had come from the grocery store the night before. He snatched her keys up from the desk and headed into the parking lot, taking a deep breath of the crisp morning air. It would be dawn soon.
In the corner of the lot, he spotted Cho's vehicle. He waved at the other man, knowing it would be absolutely futile to tell him to go home. The Serious Crimes Unit took the safety of their boss very earnestly, and he was thankful for that.
He clicked a button on Lisbon's keychain. Plastic bags greeted him as he opened the trunk fully. Sincerely, he hoped that she had come home with her usual rations of nonperishable items, or she had just wasted a lot of money on food she wasn't going to be able to eat.
Scooping up the bags from the compartment, he slammed the lid and headed back inside. Methodically, he rummaged and unpacked, regretfully tossing over half of what he found. Apparently, she was on a new health food kick.
He made eggs. Of course he did, because he was Patrick Jane, and if there were eggs around, he was making them.
Lisbon wandered into the kitchen just as he was adding cheese to the frying pan, still looking half asleep. Her hair was tousled, eyes unfocused.
"Good morning," he said cheerfully. "I made coffee."
She didn't respond, just headed towards the percolating pot. Although he still didn't like the stuff, he had gotten quite adept at making it. A freshly brewed cup could sometimes get Lisbon out her pricklier moods, and he never hesitated to use it as a weapon.
Halfway through her first cup, she finally spoke. "So I didn't just imagine last night?"
"That would be quite the dream," he said, reaching for plates.
"Well," she said, "it was worth a shot."
He laughed, then headed for her tiny table, a plate in either hand. "I cleared some stuff off this thing," he told her, "so that maybe we could use it for its intended purpose."
She followed him, carrying her coffee mug in one hand and forks in the other. "You mean it's not supposed to just hold mail and laundry? I guess I've been using it wrong all these years."
They ate in companionable silence, Lisbon occasionally peering glancing over his shoulder at the smiling face still plastered on her wall. Her expression at those times was intense, calculating.
"Chocolate brown," he said, and her eyes jumped back to him.
"Hm?"
"You should paint that wall chocolate brown. It'd be a great accent color. Besides, I think you'd find it soothing and calming, which is something you need more of."
She almost laughed. "Yeah, maybe I'll paint in all my spare time today."
"You know, no one would blame you if you didn't come into work," he told her, knowing as soon as he spoke that it was a useless statement.
Her eyes hardened. "It's my life that's being threatened, Jane. I'm damn well going to be in on the investigation."
"Yes, I figured you were going to say that." He sighed. "Well, let's get going then. I don't want to be late. My boss is kind of a hard ass."
She made a face at him, but pushed back from the table. Fifteen minutes later, she was coming back down the stairs, pulling her hair up into a bun. He had dumped the plates into the dishwasher by then, and was rolling his sleeves back down.
As Lisbon holstered her gun and attached her badge, he considered asking her to stay home again. He knew what would happen when she got to the office – she would push herself to the brink of exhaustion, check and recheck files until her eyes bled, and wind up passed out on her desk, keyboard pressed into her face.
But at least if she was at work, he could keep a reasonable eye on her. And she would be surrounded by people that cared about her, that would make sure she wasn't about to keel over.
When he looked up, she was staring expectantly at him. "Are you coming? I wouldn't want you to get in trouble with your boss, after all."
He smiled, brushing his thoughts aside, then followed her out the door.
The office was already buzzing when they arrived, phones ringing, the background noises that made up the ambiance of headquarters having an almost soothing effect on him.
The team looked exhausted. Lisbon noticed, naturally.
"I distinctly remember telling you to not keep an eye on me," she said, raising an eyebrow.
"No idea what you're talking about," Cho deadpanned, sipping his coffee.
Jane made a note to buy everyone pizza for lunch. He realized again how fortunate he was to have these people on his side. Well, on Lisbon's side. But she was always on his side, so it was the same thing. Mostly.
Lisbon sighed, visibly changing the subject. "Where are we with this case? Do we know anything about the blood on my wall?"
Grace checked her notes. "Blood is definitely human, but the DNA results will take a few more days, even with the rush we put on them."
She nodded. "Anything else?"
Clearing his throat, Rigsby spoke up. "There was a fingerprint on the note you found under your pillow, boss."
Instantly, Jane felt his guard go up. "Lisbon touched the note. So did I. Are you sure the print doesn't belong to one of us?"
"Definitely not yours," Cho said. "We had the techs compare your prints right away. Of course, we don't know who they belong to, but they definitely belong to someone."
That wasn't right, not at all. "Red John doesn't leave evidence," Jane said flatly.
Lisbon frowned as she caught his gaze, her expression mirroring his. "Not ever," she said. "In almost thirty cases. No DNA, no fingerprints. I'm not inclined to think that he's going to start being sloppy now, especially when he didn't even commit a murder."
There was beat while everyone considered that they were talking about Lisbon's hypothetical murder. Jane fought a shiver.
"I agree," Jane said. "We have a fingerprint because Red John wants us to have a fingerprint."
"Okay, but why?" Grace wanted to know.
Jane shook his head. "No way of knowing that until we figure out who the prints belong to." He considered the situation for a moment. "Too bad we have to rely on the fingerprinting guy here. I think I may have irritated him during the whole Hightower incident."
Rigsby ignored the last statement. "What if he really did just get sloppy?" he wanted to know. "Or he just assumed that since we know he never leaves evidence, we'll stop checking for it."
"That'd be a stupid assumption to make," Cho informed him. "But there's always a chance he'll make a mistake."
Jane doubted it, but if the rest of them needed to cling to hope, he wasn't going to judge them.
The only thing left to do was wait.
As it turned out, when Jane was forced to wait when there was a distinct threat hanging over Lisbon's head, he didn't take it well.
He holed up in the attic for a few hours in the morning, scribbling his chaotic thoughts out on paper. The task usually helped him sort through the theories that were chasing each other around in his mind. His conclusions were not very pleasant.
Away from Lisbon though, he was anxious, and so he wandered down to her office. She was drinking coffee and staring absently at her computer screen.
He smiled. Even the consummate professional Teresa Lisbon had been known to be human. His smile faded when he realized she was probably more scared than she was distracted.
"Buy you lunch?" he asked, opening her door without knocking.
She checked her watch. "It's ten-thirty, Jane. I know you're getting old, but do we have to go for the early bird specials?"
He pretended to be affronted. "Old? Please, woman. You wound me." He dropped onto the couch.
"Take it easy," she warned, smirking. "I wouldn't want you to break your hip. I'd have to take you into a field and shoot you."
He dropped the light air. "Doing alright?"
She shrugged. "Just waiting." He could see the strain on her face.
"Maybe we could go buy paint," he suggested. "I was serious about that chocolate brown color. It'd go great, I mean it."
"Yeah," she said, sarcastic again. "Maybe we'll do that, assuming no one is waiting in my apartment to kill me tonight."
At that moment, Grace knocked on the door. Her face was ashen, eyes bright. Immediately, Jane stood up.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Lisbon do the same.
Grace took a deep breath. "Fingerprint results are in," she said.
"Already?" Lisbon asked.
"Yeah," the other woman said. "Apparently it was a slow day."
In every situation where something awful was about to happen, Jane felt a thrill of foreboding crawl down his spine. Whatever news Grace had, it was going to be bad, was going to change their lives.
"And?" Lisbon said, voice a touch too loud to be normal.
Grace touched her forehead, a nervous gesture. Her eyes met his, and he swallowed. Hard.
"The print belongs to Angela Jane."
AN: Muahaha!