Title - Redress - Chapter 3

Author - Kourion

Summary: Sometimes the most innocuous events can signal brutal happenings. Such as a telephone ringing once in the night, and then abruptly stopping. Warnings: for violence and sensitive subject matter.

"Courage is not simply one of the virtues, but the form of every virtue at the testing point." - C.S. Lewis

They release her with specific conditions on day two.

It's that, or a Lisbon-threatened AMA on day 1. She's antsy to go. She doesn't want to speak to a shrink, not again, and I can't say I blame her.

She's still woozy, her head is still giving her pain, and I suspect some of the physical symptoms are still generating fear, appropriately so. She's denying it, of course - playing it like it's not bothering her as much as I know it is. As if she broke her arm in a skiing accident, or injured her skull in an automobile crash. But she's also taken to wearing layers. Layer after layer of undershirts and then long flannel shirts, and then sweatshirts from her rookie cop days. She continuously pulls down on the sleeves whenever they slide up and risk exposing flesh.

She hasn't asked to go home, exactly. She's just asked to leave.

The forensics team, I'm sure, are still working at her apartment. That...or the locksmith and repair guys are undoubtedly still lingering about. Last I heard from Agent Benton, there wasn't an excessive amount of damage to the door frames or exterior windows which is unnerving, and it's for that reason alone that the CBI is checking out everything in great detail. The security alarm was down, but there was no evidence of tampering.

The whole thing reeks of something a little more professional, a little more... thought out...than a random attack on a pretty woman in her apartment.

So yeah. Something tells me that Lisbon may not want to go home for awhile. When I asked her about it - where she wants to go, what she wants to do...I saw the look in her eyes. A flash of apprehension. The inner emotional battle to appear strong and in control and unflappable contrasted with an irrepressible panic at the prospect of going back to her apartment. That place. And the alternative of her staying with me seems even less attractive to her, I'm sure - not that I've asked her just yet. I'm still considering how to phrase the suggestion, or even how to pull it off so I don't bring Lisbon from one unfortunate dwelling to another.

My house isn't really... guest friendly. And that's putting it mildly.

But maybe there is still some alternative...

At any rate, work won't be a worry, or even a possibility, for some time. Certainly not field work, not for her. Her cast minimally has to stay on for 6 weeks, and probably even longer than that given that it was a compound spiral fracture. Which essentially was caused when someone held her arm and twisted it in its socket, or else held her arm while she flung herself about with sufficient force to fracture bone.

Both situations leave me feeling nauseated, and for the umpteenth time in the last forty hours, I push down a sick, acrid taste.

Yeah. Her arm is in pretty bad shape - and it's her prominent arm. Which means that not only will she not be able to drive for over a month {something that I think will drive the team batty long before Lisbon, actually} but she also won't be able to even draw a gun. In an emergency, she'd be a sitting duck. And really, emergencies are the only reason she's outfitted with a personal weapon in the first place.

I've also learned via Rigsby that Cho's been assigned...temporary Senior Agent status, or something along those lines. Hightower's orders. Along with explicit instructions that Lisbon is to return any cold case files she had booked out for review. Because she's to do absolutely no work. Nada, nope, zilch, zero work. That was made very, very clear. CBI regulations or something.

And that's exactly what I'm thinking about when the second shrink in as many days finally arrives. I start to excuse myself, sensing that I'm leaving Lisbon in competent hands. But as I shut the door, I catch a glimpse of her - milk white skin, raven hair, purple blotched skin...haunted thoughts.

Instinctively Lisbon seems to feel my gaze, and looks up to meet my eyes, some sort of question on the tip of her tongue, nearly vocalized. I can see the interplay of emotions flash across her face, although she seems to repress the question I know she really wants to ask, and looks back down at her lap, beat.

I don't know what to say, to do. All I can mutter is a pathetic, "I'll be right out in the hall if you need me." I kick myself mentally not a moment later.

'"If you need me..."?'

As if that wouldn't offend Lisbon's sensibilities. Any suggestion that she's weak, or even the possibility that she could benefit from support (which, to Lisbon, is synonymous with weak), and she puffs out like a peacock, indignant.

Not this time though, as amazingly it works; I see her shoulders decrease marginally - just a tiny drop in the degree of tension, gone.

'Maybe...'

I speak a little louder this time, and I wait until she meets my eyes, and doesn't look away, "Do you want me to say with you, Lisbon?"

She's already gone through the worst of it on her own, unfortunately. Forensics collection, a rape exam, SART kit. Not that she was all too cognizant of what was happening at the time - the concussion, almost a blessing in a sense if it saves her from even just a little more emotional torment. Although it still had to be pretty disturbing given what she had experienced mere hours before. Dr. Phelps mentioned ativan, in passing, and studying her now - I realize why he felt the need to offer medication at all.

"Lisbon - do you want me to stay? Just... let me know what you want."

I try to keep my voice soft, gentle. The sort of voice you'd use it you were trying to coax a little abandoned kitten out from under a car. Even timber, light - just a little less placid than how I'd sound if I were attempting to place someone under hypnosis.

I catch Lisbon frown at my suggestion this time - torn.

'Yes and no,' she seems to say with her eyes, her body language. Really, what I gather is that she wants me to stay, and for Dr. Hollis to leave. But we both know that's not going to happen. I see her glance back to the psychiatrist, questioning.

"It's your call, Teresa," the woman states primly, no doubt annoyed with me.

And oh - how I love that. Not Senior Agent Lisbon. No, no.

Teresa.

As if Lisbon gave her permission...

Studying her from afar, I can tell that the swelling on the right side of her face has gone down considerably in even a day, and that alone makes a staggering difference. She can now open both eyes, which helps - although the sclera of her right eye is an alarming blood red from where there was damage to the vessel. Instead of it being white as it should be, it looks as it someone has replaced her eye with a crimson marble. A little unnerving at the best of times - made more so because the red is almost as dark as the pupil and so barely discernable, especially from a distance.

All the same, meeting her eyes is grounding. For me.

I hate not being able to look into Lisbon when I speak to her. In fact, I'm sure I can gather more from where she's at mentally or emotionally...simply by looking her directly in the eye...

She holds a lot of emotion in her eyes.

Lisbon's raspy voice cuts through the haze of my thoughts. And at least some of the volume has returned - because now it sounds as if she's getting over a sore throat.

She's healing fairly quickly.

Physically.

"I don't...I don't know? Maybe? I'm not sure. I-"

I've never seen her this indecisive, this fearful. The petite woman in front of me seems almost like a stranger right now - save for the pink blush of shame at her inability to outright dismiss me from the room. Although that response, for the most part, is physiological, even if prompted by an emotion. It's not a behavioral issue.

And that's really the most alarming issue right now. Behaviorally, Lisbon seems very different - going about all of this, traumatic as it is, far differently than I would have suspected. Which makes me wonder if she's slightly better at hiding her insecurities or problems than I had previously believed.

Lisbon always seemed to be so tough, so invincible-seeming. Resilient to the point of steely. Or so I thought.

Right now, she seems profoundly anxious as her small hands move to the bed, play with the sheets.

Maybe it is because this trauma is still all too fresh, all too raw.

Or maybe she's still too disoriented from her physical injuries. And given the physical trauma alone, I know the sex act must have been unimaginable in its violence...in its force. Its horror. What should have been an act of tenderness between a couple in love was made abhorrent, and perverted.

I wait another moment or so, but when she still hasn't responded one way or the other, I make the decision for her - at least in the immediate. Padding back over towards her bed, I drag an extra plastic chair closer to where she's perched up, stiffly.

Almost hesitantly, I reach out for one of her cold, pale hands with one of my own much larger ones, trying to draw her attention to my presence. I suspect she's feeling very ungrounded, very unreal. I have enough personal experience with emotional shock to know that physical touch can prevent derealization episodes... and that's really what I want to help prevent right now. Because I can sense she's close to slipping into something like that. Her eyes look glassy, and it worries me.

"Lisbon, look at me please," I start softly, and feel some pang of worry at how easily she obeys, "You know you don't need to answer any questions-"

"Mr. Jane! This is really not-"

I continue on as if only Lisbon and I are in the room.

"...you don't need to answer any questions, or talk about anything that's upsetting you right now. You just want to take some deep breaths. Deep, strong breaths and calm down. Because everything is going to be alright now. Everything is alright. Everything is okay."

It's working.

Her shoulders slump a bit, and she leans back slightly against her pillow. I reach over and turn off the glaring bedside lamp, and the immediate area around where Lisbon is resting softens, dims. A few moments later and I can sense she's feeling even more relaxed.

Dr. Hollis sighs, audibly, and I turn to actually muster an apologetic smile. Well, it's the best I can do under the circumstances. I know the woman is only trying to help. What's more, I know Lisbon really does need to speak to a professional. If for no other reason than the fact that I can feel such shame coming off her - so intensely that it's hard to be near her, hard to consider this is how she's feeling. About everything that's occurred. But mostly... about herself.

Truthfully, I can also feel a staggering amount of self-revulsion, and it alarms me, makes me wonder just how much self-loathing she's always possessed. For the degree I'm picking up on wouldn't just arise from a single event alone. Even one as vile as assault. No - a leaner, softer version of self-deprecation, of devaluation, would have always had to have been there.

I just didn't pick up on it.

It's an alarming thought. One which makes me contemplate the possibility that Teresa Lisbon is far less transparent than I had originally proclaimed.

So I try again.

"But maybe it would help to talk a little, just a little?"

I catch Lisbon bite down on her bottom lip slightly, hard enough to make it redden, and I realize then that she thinks I'm patronizing her.

"She might be able to give you some tips and suggestions - suggestions to help you feel calmer?"

For although Lisbon is calmer now as I stroke her hand in clockwise circles... she is still flinching at every sound, rigid, and failing to maintain eye contact.

An hour later, and we haven't covered much ground.

Lisbon bypasses every question she doesn't wish to answer by stating that she "can't remember very well." Which is probably true, in part. But I can tell that she's also stretching the truth a great deal, as well; she had far less difficulty physically describing her attackers to the police when they came the day before, which would clearly indicate a rather detailed memory of the events.

In fact, I have a rather strong suspicion that she can recall the events with great recollection.

But I can also feel her pulse, holding her hand as I am doing, and it's clearly going too fast to continue on. Several times I whisper "calm down" as a reminder, which seems to only work for about a nanosecond before the anxiety renews itself and she's left trembling, her heart racing.

If I could only put her in a trance state - although I know she'd balk at the suggestion.

As the end of the hour nears, Dr. Hollis resignedly writes out a script for an anti-anxiety medication and a sleeping aid - both of which Lisbon denies needing, despite evidence to the contrary. Dr. Hollis raises her eyebrows at the protest but wisely says nothing, before proceeding to riffle around in her satchel, procuring some brochures from the RAINN foundation, and information about a support group for law enforcement professionals who have been sexually assaulted.

Then Lisbon's primary care doctor returns to draw more blood, advising her to come back in six months for follow up blood work. We don't need to ask the reasons behind the request. We both know why.

A few final exams remain - and these are all physical, so I'm asked to leave the room outright. This time Lisbon looks adamant that I comply.

On my way back to the waiting room, I run into Van Pelt... carting a rather full duffel. I recognize it as Lisbon's own emergency bag for last minute cases that require air transport or extended stays away from Sacramento.

"Grace? You do know that Lisbon's being released today, yes?"

She gives me a wan smile, then continues on, explaining that she grabbed whatever basics she thinks Lisbon could possibly need for the next few weeks, before dangling a pair of keys in front of my eyes.

I note that there is a wooden elephant with mock ivory tusks clipped to the chain, along with a green-gold G dangling near the lanyard's end.

"These are yours?"

Grace nods, suddenly looking somber.

"I know what you told me Jane. I know what you said. I suspect she... wasn't comfortable sharing what happened in full..."

"Grace, no, listen-"

She cuts me off, holds up a hand to still me.

"I don't mind, Jane. I'm not mad. I know Lisbon's...private. And out of everyone, including her own family - she made you her medical proxy. But you can't lie to me and tell me this was just a robbery gone bad, Jane. It just doesn't fly. I saw her. I saw how she looked, I saw the look in her eyes. I get it. Rigsby and Cho may be easier to fool, but not me - not on this."

Some distant, niggling voice tells me that there's something here, something in what she's saying, something that I probably shouldn't ignore - but I can't deal with anything else right now.

And Grace, at the moment, is okay.

Lisbon is most definitely not.

Of course, deflecting comments from Cho and Rigsby had been so much easier. I had simply made up some story about a robbery. About a robbery that turned a little more physical than the assailants probably had intended.

And Cho and Rigsby nodded their heads, their eyes full of sympathy. They sighed and looked forlorn and thoughtful, but I could sense neither was really too concerned for Lisbon's psyche, her long term mental health.

After all, she's been "roughed up" before, though certainly not as severly. Still, such a story provides a cleaner, tidier portrait of how things should unfold, how Lisbon would deal. Because it wouldn't be the same sort of emotional trauma as being raped by two men over a period of close to four hours. Not the same trauma as being gagged and knotted up in duct tape, knowing that even if you screamed, no one could hear you...

' "The radio was turned on... quite loudly, Mr. Jane. Excessively loudly. Local rock station - and Agent Lisbon's neighbour, Ms. Wallace, thought maybe she was holding a party. Given the late hour and Agent Lisbon's general comportment, she found it unsual... but didn't want to cause tension. So she let it go for awhile. At quarter to five in the morning, Ms. Wallace went to Agent Lisbon's door and found it open. Ms. Wallace immediately saw broken glass, mud clumps, and a trail of pink water when she opened the door. She finally located Agent Lisbon in the bathroom, barely conscious. There was blood on the floor, blood in the tub. Ms. Wallace stayed with Agent Lisbon, trying to keep her alert, until the paramedics arrived. Ms. Wallace was able to give essential biographical info, and as Agent Lisbon is in the hospital registry as a officer of the peace, her file was pulled quickly. That's how we were able to notify you, as her contact, her medical proxy..." '

...definitely not the same degree of trauma as having your arm snapped like a twig simply because you won't quit fighting for your life...

So here we are: Grace has cornered me by the coffee machine, the crappy coffee machine that spits out lukewarm instant crap coffee, and her eyes hold a look of accusation. It takes all my willpower to silently drink my atrocious beverage. Silently is a bit of a stretch for me at the best of times, so I make a lame joke about wanting some gunpowder tea to help with my headache.

"When did you figure it out?," I sigh at last, unnerved that she knows something so intimate about Lisbon. Something which Lisbon all but begged me not to speak about.

Van Pelt returns the sigh and sort of half leans into the machine as if for support.

"At first, I just went with it. With your story, I mean. I just assumed...that what you said was the total truth."

"And? What changed your mind...?"

"A fractured pelvis, you said. One of several injuries. And hearing the specifics - her arm, her head, her pelvis... Well that sounded like more than just a robbery gone south. But mostly...I just KNEW - because when I went to give her a hug before saying goodbye yesterday, she went so...rigid. And I could see the bruising on her wrists, and how the skin was abraded. Like someone who has been held down - but also tied up. I mean, we work for the CBI, Jane. We know what abrasions caused by tape or rope look like. And, knowing that, and knowing the reasons behind tying someone up...well, that sounds like something a little more vile than a robbery."

I do my best to push away the ugly thoughts that take up residence in my brain as Van Pelt speaks, and instead take another swig of the beverage, trying not to grimace.

"She could have just been nervous... given everything that happened... don't you think? I mean, she could have still been...robbed. In a sense, she was-"

Grace gives me a meaningful look then, and I know she's surprised at my admission. Frankly, I just surprised myself. Of course, Lisbon has been robbed. Robbed of her sense of...safety, peace, self.

"She went totally stiff, Jane...and then looked like she was going to cry. Or throw up. Or both. Just because I touched her? Touched her back? For Lisbon - even if she's not, you know - huggy ...that's still odd. I knew something pretty traumatic happened when she responded like that."

"Getting beaten up so severely in your own home would be traumatic enough..."

Grace stares at me, her eyes tired and sad.

I know she's knows. But I have to be clear on how we are to proceed. If Grace knows the truth - fine.

But I don't want Lisbon to think I've betrayed her trust.

"You know how Lisbon is, Grace - she's not prone to talking about what bothers her. You know how she likes to stay in control. Please don't mention this to the rest of the team."

"Jane, this is something that-"

"Leave it, Grace. Please - don't put me in the position of discussing an event that I know Lisbon doesn't want me discussing with you...," I pause, gathering my thoughts, before proceeding, "if it helps - she really didn't want to discuss it with me, either. She doesn't want to admit it even happened."

Tucking a loose strand of auburn hair behind her head, Grace nods, looking resigned.

"That's a big problem, though. Denial isn't going to make this easier for her..."

I nod back, suddenly feeling drained before she adds, "Anyway, I told Rigsby that Lisbon would likely still be...apprehensive...about going back to her apartment. She's feisty, sure - we all know that. But I don't think anyone of us would be looking forward to heading back to a place where something so violent took place."

I attempt one last sip of the putrid drink, then chuck the remaining cup and the liquid therein into the nearest garbage bin.

"No, of course not...," I start, confused. "Just - why are you giving *me* your keys?"

Grace grins again - more warmly now, happy with herself.

"Well, boss shouldn't be alone right now. You know it, I know it. I also know that she choose you to tell...you...to let in. So I thought I'd offer my place. I have a guest room, too. You won't have to sleep on a couch or anything, although I'm sure - given that you're you - that wouldn't stop even if that were the case..."

When I don't say anything - when I can't say anything - Grace takes pity, and adds, smiling, "Don't worry. I trust you not to burn the place to the ground. The cache on my computer is clean by the way, and I don't own a diary - so don't even bother."

I try to feign offense, but my heart isn't in the act. I suddenly feel profoundly tired, and the realization that I haven't really slept in several nights...not for any real length of time... is suddenly abundantly clear to my body, if not my mind.

I swipe at my eyes.

"She does trust you, Jane. So I trust you. Simple, right?"

I mutter a sotto thanks while Van Pelt scrawls her address on a post-it yellow sticky, and sticks it to the elephant.

"And you?," I say at long last, feeling some ancient grief rear its head suddenly, for reasons unknown. The situation has stabilized, and suddenly all I feel is unbelievably...stricken.

I clear my throat, try again.

"Where will you stay?"

Grace smiles winsomely.

"Wayne and I are very, very good friends, Jane. He doesn't mind having me as a temporary roomie. Not if it helps Lisbon."

She hands the duffle over to me, and a second set of keys.

"These are Lisbon's...the keys. They're new, I mean. The locksmith gave them to Rigsby. Her place is...done, now, I guess. Physically secure, apparently. But I know..."

She doesn't finish the sentence, and I don't need her too.

"I'll see you guys at work in six weeks, right? We can trade off then. And tell boss...tell her, just...," she flounders for a moment, squints as she tries to formulate something appropriate

This time, I smile.

"Thank you, Grace."

She shrugs, her face contemplative, lost in thought.

"I promise not to burn your apartment to the ground. Scout's honor."

Hopefully I hold up the right hand.

A/N: I have pretty amusing non-luck sometimes. More than two years on the air, and the names of Jane's daughter and wife are never revealed, not as far as I can recall. And then we get a cemetery scene, and catch a glimpse of the headstones - for an Angela and Charlotte Jane on the same day that I release a story with fan-ascribed names? *argh* *screams* Oh well, I'm going to discount that for the purposes of this story ;)

For whatever reason, I tend to think (given there was no date-of-birth to date-of-death on either of the tombstones, as far as I could see) that Charlotte would be Jane's daughter. Nothing at all to indicate that she would be the daughter, other than the fact that I can see him picking the name for her. It seems to fit with his almost...elegant quirkiness. Three piece suits, a 1970's Citron, jade coloured teacups and such a precise manner of making tea. Know what I mean?