AN:I know I said I wasn't going to do this, but due to some time constraints, I'm going to give everyone a blanket THANK YOU for being awesome and reviewing this! I sort of figured you'd rather have another chapter, anyway!
You guys are amazing!
Rebuilding the Sun
Chapter Four
The first thing he realized upon waking up was that he had an ache in his temples that was threatening to split his head in two.
The second thing he realized was that he wasn't where he expected to be.
As his eyes slowly focused, he recognized the cream colored furniture and sparse artwork. How the hell had he wound up at Lisbon's?
He tried to think, but that seemed like it was causing his head to throb more, so he simply threw an arm over his eyes and tried to will the pain away.
Slowly, the day started to piece itself back together.
His father had been in Lisbon's office. The words sounded outrageous when he put them together, but it had actually happened. There was something more going on with that, but he sincerely hoped he never found out what.
He hadn't spoken to his father in sixteen years. Alex had made it clear that when he and Angela had left, they were both dead to him. He had kept that promise, too. He had never met Charlotte, hadn't shown up for the funeral of his daughter-in-law and grandchild.
Jane had hoped that Charlotte's birth would've gone a long way towards healing the rifts in their family, but he had been disappointed. Angela had been his rock during that time, extraordinary woman that she'd been, telling him that they would be all the family their daughter needed.
Even though a decade and a half had passed, he found he was still bitter about it. He'd never thought he'd have to confront those feelings again, however.
But those past experiences made him very certain that his father hadn't shown up yesterday simply to check on his welfare.
Cautiously, he stretched, and was somewhat amused to note that he was still wearing his shoes.
Really, though. How had he gotten here? He hoped to God he didn't drive.
He'd left CBI in an unexpected fit of anger. With the idea of calming himself back down, he'd settled in at a bar.
He remembered ordering about four drinks before things started to blur around the edges. He focused, ignoring his head.
It was dark when he showed up here, he thought he remembered that much. He'd taken a cab, he was fairly certain, because he'd slurred Lisbon's address so badly the first time he'd had to repeat it.
Things were extraordinarily vague at this point, but he thought he recalled being in her arms. He had no idea why. And maybe it hadn't happened at all. Perhaps it was just a fantasy his alcohol-soaked brain had come up with.
He heard soft footfalls on the stairs, and he forced his eyes open in time to see a sleep-tousled Lisbon making her way towards him.
"Good morning," she said cheerfully, looking like she found the whole situation amusing. "How are you feeling?"
He cleared his throat. It hurt. "I'm sure I've felt worse," he croaked, "though I'm not sure when." Slowly, tentatively, he sat up. "Ouch," he muttered. "Lisbon, what the hell am I doing here?"
Her eyes widened. "You don't remember?"
"I have some dim recollection of pouring myself in a cab and knocking on your door," he told her. "That's all."
She studied his face, as though she was making sure he wasn't lying, and he felt the first stirring of unease. Then she blinked. "You rambled a bit and then passed out on my couch."
Her careful words, said so lightly, made him absolutely certain that he'd told her something he shouldn't. Damn it all, anyway.
He held her eyes for a moment longer, silently willing her to tell him what he'd said. Instead, she stood up.
"How do scrambled eggs sound?" she asked, walking towards the kitchen.
"If there's tea that goes along with them, they sound like heaven," he said honestly.
As she shifted things around in cupboards, he took a moment to appreciate that, other than the hangover, he felt rather normal. He wasn't having to force his expressions, the banter with Lisbon, none of it.
Moving slowly, he sat down at her tiny kitchen table, gratefully accepting the glass of water and bottle of painkillers she passed him.
In a few minutes, the teakettle whistled, and he forced himself to get up and take care of it. She still had his favorite tea on hand. It was a touching gesture, and he realized again how much he didn't deserve her devotion.
He went about his ritual for tea, finding comfort in the familiar motions. It was something he'd discovered while under Sophie Miller's care - how such a simple thing could bring him a modicum of peace. Before he'd found himself in a locked room, he'd never had much use for tea. After, however, it had become an essential method of coping.
It was odd - his whole life was divided into two parts: Before and After.
He reclaimed his previous seat, cup of tea in hand, and smiled when Lisbon slid a plate in front of him and then sat down with her own.
"Thank you," he said after the first forkful. "I owe you dinner."
"Don't worry about it," she replied.
He took another bite. "I at least owe you dinner for being a drunken pain in your ass last night."
She laughed, and he smiled at the sparkle in her eyes. "You weren't that big of a pain," she assured him. "But if you're insisting..."
"I am," he told her. "No arguing."
They finished breakfast in companionable silence, then he helped her straighten the kitchen. She gave him a light shove towards the door when they were done, handing him his suit jacket.
"I'll take you to your car," she said, reaching for her own keys. "I'm assuming you'd like to go back to your room and shower before work."
He pretended to look offended. "What are you implying, Lisbon?"
She rolled her eyes. "You smell like a bar."
He offered her a small smile. "I imagine that's putting it kindly."
She left him at the Citroen, still parked outside the watering hole he'd chosen to hide in yesterday afternoon.
As he watched her vehicle disappear, he felt the fog he'd been wrapped in start to re-emerge, and he cursed himself.
XxXxXxXxXxX
Work was routine for the next few days. They caught a case, which turned out to be open and shut. Sometimes it happened that way, but he certainly could have used the distraction.
He spent much of his time watching Lisbon. It had always been one of his favorite activities, but he found that it had the effect of making him feel better, at least a little.
It wasn't as though she was a restful type of person, either. She was constantly in motion, filling out forms, barking out orders, doing things that she could very easily delegate to her team but chose to do herself.
She was…certain of her place in the world. She was Teresa Lisbon, Senior Agent with the CBI, head of the Serious Crimes Unit, and she caught killers. She was a devout Catholic, was the most forgiving and loyal person he'd ever met, and she was terrifically stubborn when she wanted to be.
He wished he knew as much about himself. Some of the basics, yes, were no problem. He was Patrick Jane, CBI Consultant. He even had an identification badge that told him so. After that, however, things got more than a little murky.
Hell, he didn't even know if he was married. Technically, officially, he supposed he wasn't. The wedding ring on his hand told a different story.
He didn't know what his heart said anymore, and that was troubling. Perhaps it was a good sign – an indication that he was beginning to pick of the pieces of his life. It was a hopeful idea. Or it would be, rather, if he could be certain the guilt that was building in the back of his mind didn't drown him.
Consciously, he retreated into the haze of his mind. It was a neat trick, a way of protecting himself when his darker emotions started to stir. Cowardly, yes, but it was certainly more pleasant than feeling so emotionally overwhelmed he thought he'd break into pieces.
Lisbon came storming into her office then, clearly put out by something. Tossing a ubiquitous manila file on her desk, she dropped into her chair, looking as though she very much wanted to punch something. Or someone.
"Who's stepping on your toes?" he asked, recognizing her expression.
She met his gaze, and he saw the stormy turbulence in her own. "The damn FBI, again. Other than that mess with Lorelei and implicating Mancini, have you done anything to piss them off lately?"
He tried to look like he was thinking. "Not that I can recall. Are they trying to steal one of our cases, or are we trying to steal one of theirs?"
Her scowl turned back to the file on her desk. "They're trying to take the Red John case away from us. They're claiming that he has close ties to other states, causing the case to fall under federal jurisdiction."
He shrugged. "So give it to them."
Lisbon stared at him as though he'd just told her he was becoming a priest. "Just give it to them?" Her eyebrows were so furrowed they were very nearly touching. "I would have thought you of all people…" She trailed off, unsure of her next words.
Thoughtfully, he leaned forward. "Lisbon, I don't care about the case anymore. For me, it was never about the whys and the wherefores. I just wanted him dead. I couldn't give a damn about his personal life."
This was true. Whenever he'd shown an interest in Red John's personal life, it was only because he harbored some vague idea about using what he knew to track the killer down. Now that that particular task had been accomplished, he found he wanted nothing more to do with who the person Red John had been.
After a moment of startled silence, Lisbon spoke again. "Well, maybe it doesn't matter to you," she said, slowly, "but I've had this case for nine years. Without exaggerating, I can say it's been the most important thing that's happened to me as a cop. I want to know everything I can about it."
His interest was piqued, and he felt the mists receding. "Most important thing that's happened to you as a cop?" he repeated. "How's that?"
Her eyes met his, and they were softer now, a very clear green. "It brought you to me." She shrugged helplessly. "It sounds silly, but without that case, we would've never met. And as much as you piss me off sometimes, there's no denying that you've made this unit the best in CBI."
Her last sentence sounded as though she had tacked it on hastily, trying to dispel the levity of her earlier words. Deep within his numb chest, his heart ached, just for a second.
"Teresa," he said quietly, voice a touch hoarse. None of his emotions were forced in this moment. "If there was any good that came out of everything that happened, it was that I met you. I don't know where I'd be if I hadn't."
She smiled at him, and it looked like a sunrise, full of light and promise. If they had been sitting closer, he knew, she would have seriously considered reaching for his hand.
"So," he said, breaking the spell that had fallen over them, "I still owe you dinner. Does tonight work?"
She looked surprised. "I guess I'd forgotten about that. Tonight works just fine, assuming we don't get a case."
He crossed his legs, leaning back into the couch cushions. "Sounds good," he said. "And if means that much to you," he added, "fight for the damn case."
Her face took on a set expression. "I will, dammit. It's my case."
He couldn't help the affectionate smile that tugged on his lips. A second later, however, he sighed as he saw Cho striding determinedly towards them.
"Looks like we're rescheduling dinner," he told her.
The office door opened. "Boss," the other agent said. "We caught a hot one. AG's office didn't have many details, they just told us to roll."
Looking slightly annoyed at their lack of information, Lisbon gave orders to move out.
Forty minutes later, they pulled up to the curb of small house located in a Sacramento suburb. To Jane's eyes, it could have been any number of crime scenes. The flashing lights, the gawking neighbors, the ever-present yellow tape.
Still, something bothered him about this particular scene. Even though he knew psychics didn't exist, in that moment he swore he had a touch of genuine foreboding.
He followed Lisbon as they passed the uniformed officers charged with standing guard over the scene, not listening to the details they offered.
Rigsby met them in the living room. "Uh, victim's in the bedroom down the hall. First door on the right." He looked deeply bothered.
Lisbon met his eyes once as they walked. Clearly, they were thinking much the same thing – that this was going to be particularly nasty.
The bedroom door was already opened.
They stood in the threshold and stared at the scene. He hardly saw the body, however.
"Shit," Lisbon whispered emphatically from his left.
It was changed, yes, the circle going counterclockwise, the eyes just a touch different. Similar enough to get them involved, but altered enough to let them know they weren't dealing with the same person.
And if that wasn't obvious, the message scrawled in blood beneath the smiling face would have done it as well.
It's just beginning, it read.
The world came into sudden, abrupt focus again. It was as if the past week had never happened. He knew it was all wrong, but that didn't matter.
Carefully, without looking at her, he touched Lisbon's fingers lightly.
"I think shit just about sums it up."
AN: Oh, do you think Jane's all better? He's not.