Disclaimer: As you probably guessed by now, this show and its characters aren't mine.
A/N: Thanks to all the guest reviewers I can't answer to directly, your kind words make me very happy and help a lot when I find myself in a bind over a scene. And a huge thank you to LouiseKurylo, Thorntons and FiascoWay who helped tremendously in setting the finer points of this alternate "Soulmate World". Their very specific questions and pertinent comments had me spend a lot of time coming up with answers, the results of which can be partly seen in this chapter. So very grateful to you!
Warnings: Jane is passively suicidal – something I believe the show went to great lengths to prove, but as your mileage may vary on that one I'd rather warn about it. If this triggers you in any way, please stay safe.
Also, remember the warnings on Part 1? It starts now.
Spoilers: Some dialogues are taken directly from 1.16 "Bloodshot".
Kindred
Interlude: Bloodshot
There's a very large bomb nearby. Are you smart enough to find it?
For a second, just a small second, she entertains the notion that Jane is messing with her. That there isn't really a bomb nearby. That it's just a mean prank and he'll break into a teasing grin as soon as she calls him out.
Any moment now.
Then she sees his face, and any idea that this might be a joke escapes her mind.
He's terrified.
Oh, he hides it well – but with years passing, she learned to recognise that no-tell tell of his. The blank features, serious stare, barely parted lips – and the quick breathing he can't keep under control.
She whips out her own phone and calls Minelli.
"Boss? We've got a situation."
Left hand cradling the device, she glances his way. Coiled on himself like a spring about to jump, he isn't moving at all – but he's so tense she could swear there are vibrations in the air around him.
"It's going to be fine, Jane," she mouths off silently as Minelli gives his orders. "We've had drills for this situation, remember? It's going to be fine."
His gaze isn't focussed enough that she can be sure he saw and understood – so she raises her hand, puts it on his arm. Her initial goal was to direct his attention elsewhere, focus his mind on something else than fear – but as soon as her fingers make contact with his biceps, he lets out a sharp breath and loses his thrumming energy, just as if connected to a grounding system. His expression clears, and though he stays there leaning slightly into her hand, she can see his brain getting back in gears.
And she suddenly realises Jane needs physical contact to survive.
She should have seen the signs long ago, should have known right as they met actually – what man but a touch-deprived one would give a hug to a stranger who tried to protect him by keeping him away from the only thing he wished for?
That would explain his recent flirting, all those sudden casual touches I couldn't make sense of.
It's easy for her to use her position as an excuse to keep people at a distance – she's never been into that touchy-feely stuff, even as a child, and she was always careful to meet her physical needs far away from the job.
It's easy to assume her colleagues do the same, because of her refusal to share anything related to their personal life. They're efficient in their everyday tasks, and it's all she asks of them really – Jane could spend his nights in poker clubs, Rigsby could become a pick-up artist, Van Pelt could join a yoga cult and Cho could spend all his free time in bars for all she cares, as long as they do their job well and respect the law.
And because of that, it's so easy to forget Jane lacks any kind of life outside work. As far as she knows, he has no friends outside the CBI or support system at all. As far as she knows, he spends most of his nights on the couch in the bullpen instead of going home, and she isn't even sure he has a permanent address in Sacramento. But what can she do about it? Is there anything she can do, anything at all?
Is there something I want to do?
"Lisbon? Meet me with your team in the stairways in two minutes."
"Yes Boss, will do," she answers mechanically before hanging up.
Now is not the time to think about that.
"Jane?" she says, waiting until she catches his gaze to speak again. "Round the team and anyone else on the floor while I call the bomb squad please."
"Of course," he says, blinking slowly when she lets go of his arm.
He leaves right as the alarm starts ringing overhead and, as far as she can see, he's as efficient as he ever was – directing people toward the stairways, calm and collected. Game face on, without a hint of nervousness. As if that interlude in her office never happened.
Well. That's a good thing. Right?
"Another bomb threat," says Minelli when they finally get out of the building. "That's the third this year."
"Not on my phone, it isn't."
"Well, granted, they don't usually come through CBI. But that's what the drills are for."
By the time they're outside, she's ready to convince herself that it's nothing – a hoax someone played either on the CBI or Jane himself, someone using his ego to yank their chains.
And it's working, too, she sighs to herself as she follows Jane to the parking lot, where he starts looking through the windows of parked cars. Her phone rings.
"Lisbon, I want you to bring back Jane here right this instant!" splutters Minelli.
"Yes sir, I'll have him back in a minute," she says, rubbing her forehead.
A tension headache is building behind her eyes – one she forgets about as soon as she opens her eyes and catches a slight glimmer in the middle of her palm.
What the... Is it glowing?!
Then she realises it isn't glowing at all – but heat is coming off the name, heat she's starting to feel painfully.
"Sorry sir, call you back," she cuts Minelli and hangs up. "Jane!"
"Lisbon! Found it!"
"Jane! Back off that van!"
He's still looking through the glass panes, terror once again written all over his features, focussed on the man handcuffed inside instead of thinking of his own safety. And her hand is hurting, leaving her mind in a panic over a situation she could probably handle better in other circumstances – but she can't, they have to move, he has to move.
"Shoot it out! Shoot it out with your gun!" he yells, hitting the window with both his hands and – what?
"I – I can't, there's no time! Come on! Jane, come on, let's go!"
He isn't moving, why isn't he moving?!
"Come on, run Jane! Jane, run! I mean it, come on!"
Pulling his arm doesn't help, he shakes her off and hits the glass once more. And her fingers are starting to spasm in agony, there's only five seconds left on the countdown so she stops thinking, grabs his left hand and squeezes – and when he startles and looks at her, eyes widened and mouth opened on a silent scream, she pulls, and they finally finally finally run to safety.
Not quick enough.
The blast pushes them apart and she rolls on the ground, arms around her neck. She's been trained for this kind of situation – and she will have bruises all over her body very soon, but that doesn't matter right now. Because she gets back up just in time to see Jane falling on the ground bonelessly, and for a second she fears the worst.
Then he starts moving and she runs back to his side.
"I'm okay, I'm okay," he says as she helps him get up. "I'm fine."
She takes her phone out of her pocket, makes sure the fall didn't damage it and calls 911.
"I'm gonna get you – "
"911, what's your emergency?"
"I need an ambulance now!" she says.
Her hand doesn't hurt anymore, she notices distractedly. Jane, on the other side, has his eyebrows scrunched in pain.
"No, no ambulance, I just got something in my eyes."
Then of course, it turns out he does need an ambulance after all.
"This is a PR disaster," mutters Minelli, gaze going from Jane to the burning van. "A bomb in the CBI parking lot. A civilian employee going blind. How did P.D. miss that van?"
"It's okay, Jane, they'll take care of you," she says as they convince him to lie on the stretcher. "Everything's going to turn fine."
"How can it be fine? I can't see!"
They put gauze on his eyes – and if he keeps his head still while they bandage him, his hands are frantic, alternately wringing the fabric of his trousers and scrambling around, trying to find something to hold onto. When they haul up the stretcher in the ambulance, his face contorts in painful confusion.
"Lisbon? Lisbon, where are you?"
"I'm right here. They're going to bring you to the hospital, alright? I'll follow as closely as possible."
"You're not – ?"
"I can't follow inside," she says, frowning. "I'm not family. I'll see you at the hospital, okay?"
"Of course you can follow inside, what are you talking about? You hold his Healthcare Power of Attorney," says Minelli, raising an eyebrow. "Actually, I would feel much better if you went on with him."
She blinks.
"What?"
"Are you coming in, ma'am?" says the ambulance worker, holding the door.
She blinks again. Minelli gives her a little push.
"Go on. Someone did try to kill him – he needs protection. I'll arrange a security detail to meet you there."
"Yes, yes of course," she says, scrambling into motion. "I'm here," she adds soothingly as soon as she's seated beside him.
Jane stays silent but his hands latches on hers, holds on tight.
"Power of Attorney, huh?" she whispers after a while, the silence making her uncomfortable.
"Minelli made it mandatory when he hired me," he answers quietly. "Who else was I supposed to name? You were the best option at the time."
The only option, is what he doesn't say.
She hears it all the same.
"How did we survive that blast? We were right beside it," he mutters.
"I don't know. We ran just far enough, I guess?"
"We ran? No, we were – " he says, flummoxed.
She frowns.
"I – I don't remember running," he adds, and she can see his forehead creasing over the pads on his eyes. "Just the explosion and – that man's eyes – "
"It's okay," she whispers. "They'll sort it out at the hospital."
Fortunately, coming in ambulance means Jane doesn't have to wait before being ushered in for exams – she barely has time to call Cho before an orderly gives her notice that they are finished with the scans and tests. When she comes back inside, Jane is settled into a private room already and apparently insisted that she be examined by a doctor – something she agrees to only to shut him up while they force him into bed.
"Heard that? I'm fine," she says, once the indignity is over – for both of them. "Bruises only, nothing broken."
He doesn't answer – his face is twisting under the bandages. She gets closer, frowning.
"Are you okay? Are you in pain?"
"No. But – I need to use the bathroom," he says, half-annoyed, half-embarrassed.
"Okay, let me call a nurse, it'll be just a second.
"No! Just – just help me get up, and – "
"Jane," she groans. "At minimum you have a serious concussion, you're not supposed to get up alone!"
It's no use, of course – he already swung his legs off the side of the bed, hands trying to get a hold of the fragile medical equipment near him.
"Stop that! That machine can't hold your weight. Just – stay still for a moment, will you?!"
She takes two steps forward, slides one arm under his hands, the other around his back.
"Come on," she says. "Slowly, lean on me. I'll bring you to the bathroom, come on."
"No peeking at my backside," he says grumpily.
"I have no interest in your backside," she laughs. "One step at a time. That's it."
"How come you don't?" he asks when they get to the door, a hint of his usual smile on his lips.
"Don't what?"
"Have an interest in my backside? I've been told it's a nice one."
"I'm sure," she says dryly. "Okay, how do you want to do this? I'm not staying in the bathroom while you use it!"
"Just – bring me to the toilet, I'll be fine after that."
"Call me when you're done, okay? I'll be right by the door."
She has half a mind to call for a nurse while he's inside – but it's awfully silent in there, must be soundproof. What if he asks for help and she can't hear him? By the time she decides to take a step toward the bed to try and find the call button, there's a faint crash and a yowl of pain on the other side of the door.
"Jane! Are you okay? I'm coming in!"
"No, don't! I'm fine, I'm – "
She finds him sitting on the floor of course, hospital gown riding high on his thighs and head bandage askew, one hand against the wall, a white piece of paper stuck under his naked foot.
"I slipped," he says, obviously annoyed with himself.
"I told you to call me when you were done," she answers, rolling her eyes. "Come on, let me help you up."
"I need to wash my hands."
"I'll bring you to the sink, just – stop running, for God's sake!"
"I'm not running! There's no place to run in here!"
"You know what I mean!"
By the time he's back in his bed, complaining of pain on his tail end, he's crabbier than ever and she's completely fed up with his attitude. Of course, that's when a cheerful little nurse comes in, pulling a Holter monitor behind her. Joyce, says the tag on her uniform.
"Hello Mister Jane, how are you feeling today?"
"Just peachy," he mutters. "Nobody knows their job well enough to tell me why I can't see, in the meantime I can't even go to the bathroom alone and my coccyx hurts. Best day ever."
"Please ignore him, he had a rough morning," she says with a sigh.
"Oh yes, he's the one who survived a bomb explosion, right? Poor lamb!" says the nurse. "You have all the reasons to be a little grumpy! At least you're still alive – a bomb, my God! It could've been so much worse!"
He groans something derogatory under his breath and she sends an ineffective glares his way. Smile a bit strained now, Joyce brings the monitor near him and pulls down the blanket covering him.
"What the heck are you doing?!" yells Jane, trying to fend off her hands.
"Please calm down, Mister Jane! I just need to fasten this monitor to your chest, it'll only take a minute."
"What monitor?!"
"Very sorry, Mister Jane. It's a Holter monitor. You know, for your heartbeat?"
"Why do I need that? There's a problem with my eyes, not with my heart!"
"Damnit Jane! Stop being so difficult, just let her do her job!"
By the time Cho finally joins them after the doctor's consultation, she's eager for a break – and as far as she can guess by the level of his surliness, Jane is more than ready for one too.
"You're gonna be fine," she says, trying to convince him as much as herself.
"Yeah, probably."
"We're gonna find who did this."
"Good."
She makes sure the nurses have her phone number in case of emergency before they leave, then absorbs herself as much as possible in the case to forget the worry she feels for her consultant. She can't remember the last time she didn't close a case – mind carefully skirting around the Red John issue – and she certainly has no intention of changing the tally with this one.
At no point does she spend time thinking about the pain she felt in her hand before the bomb exploded. If Jane forgot about that, it means she can allow herself the same, right?
Sleep still eludes her most of the night.
He hates it.
Hates hospitals, hates falsely cheerful nurses, hates patronising doctors who never answer his questions and talk down to him as if he was a pet.
Especially hates the helplessness and vulnerability of being temporarily unable to see.
Trying to rely on his other senses isn't nearly as easy or efficient as advertised in fiction. The stink of ammonia and sour vitamins permeates everything, from the fabrics surrounding him to the very air, preventing him from gathering further information that way. Of course, he won't start licking his visitors so taste was always out of the question, and touch is confined to the limits of his hospital bed for now.
Sounds, though – sounds are the worst.
Alternately too loud or not loud enough, unclear in their proximity and most of the time impossible to identify. He has no way to know if the shrill screams he heard earlier were a suffering patient or an electronic device malfunction, and he often confuses the soft tapping of feet on the hard floor with the gentle knock on the door from the nurses coming to check up in him.
He hates it all the same.
After less than a day of this – at least he thinks it's been a day, there's no way to know really – he has more than enough. He wants out.
Needs out.
Fortunately, the doctor agrees.
"Clearly there's no point in keeping you here if you're intent on antagonising everybody, Mister Jane," she says in a sour voice. "So we'll release you in the care of a family member as soon as they can pick you up."
"I have no family," he answers bluntly. "And I'll release myself, thank you very much – I'm blind, not brain dead. No need for a minder."
Her annoyed sigh prickles his ears.
"I will be calling Agent Lisbon about this," she warns before leaving.
"No need, I'll tell her myself!" he calls after her, grinning sharply.
Freedom! Finally!
The elation is lost by the time Officer Powell's car pulls into the parking lot. Overly confused and slightly nauseous by the ride, he stumbles his way past the check-up point then up the stairs, intent on proving himself he can get back to normal – regardless of the fact that normal usually involves elevators.
"Can I help you to the bullpen, Mister Jane?" asks Powell, who faithfully followed him up the stairs without a word of protest – something for which he's very grateful.
"Please," he says, breathless. "If you still have the cane, I would take it now."
"Of course, no problem."
A swish and a click later, he finds himself with a thin cane sweeping the ground, one hand on the officer's shoulder – trying to the best of his abilities to appear as confident as he usually is.
The familiar sounds of the bullpen greet him like a warm blanket, if blankets were made of bricks and thrown to people's faces. Clicks and dings and swooshes and claps everywhere, and though he can guess what they are – printers and elevator and turned pages and people passing by – the whole symphony is chaotic and confusing. He feels the beginning of a tension headache brewing over the remnants of his nausea.
"Hey! Aren't you supposed to be in the hospital?"
Chronic annoyance and repressed tension covered under soft voice tones – Grace.
"Nope!"
"Yes you are."
"No, they've had enough of me. Can't say I blame them," he says, somewhat sheepishly.
A waft of flowery perfume – lilac soap – hits his nostrils as they engage in easy conversation and light banter. The pads over his eyes are starting to itch. A sudden clash of metal followed by eager footsteps alerts him to Lisbon's approach.
He grins. She really has a distinctive walk.
"What the Hell?!"
"Oh, doctor's orders," he lies, game face on. "She said it was the best thing for me to do – get back to work."
"She did not! She said you insulted the entire ward and were a complete pain in the ass!"
There also is a very distinctive musical range to her voice – it's almost distracting in how expressive it is. An impressive decrescendo of frustration and worry and a good helping of snark and just a small hint of... something... something odd.
Fear?
That makes no sense. What would she be afraid of? A small tinge of frustration burns in the back of his mind – if only he had his eyes. If he could just see her, he'd be able to read her right away. As it is, he can only try and listen carefully, smoke her out.
No such luck.
As he walks through the bullpen, hitting poles and desks and people's feet on his way, the frustration slowly turns to dread – he knows the place, he shouldn't be running around like a headless chicken. Why didn't he ever consider the possibility of loosing his sight? When he finally reaches his couch and sits, there's only one thing left on his mind.
If I can't read people, if I can't even find my way to the couch without tripping all over myself in the process, I'm useless to the team.
Never mind that he can't figure out Lisbon's secret – this is a whole new level of worrying. What if his sight never comes back? If his skills set isn't on par anymore, they'll be quick to cut him off. Perhaps Lisbon would allow him to stay around for a while if he appeals to her compassion, but as soon as Virgil learns about him loitering around doing nothing, it'll be his job to boot him out.
And he'll never catch Red John.
I need to get back to work.
He takes a deep breath, stands up and walks purposefully toward where he thinks are the interrogation rooms. Slowly, one foot in front of the other, counting the steps until the next landmark – Van Pelt's desk... Cho's... Rigsby's... the printer... Lisbon's office. Turn. First door on the left... continue... twenty-three steps, four, five, six...
There!
An angry voice he doesn't know. He can't make out the words, of course – that he can even hear the voice at all is a surprise, but a very welcome one.
Tuning into my other senses may really work after all.
The door to the interrogation room is just a bit further ahead than he thought – banging into the wall then opening the door, he walks in, interrupting whatever was going on inside.
"Sorry! Don't mind me."
The suspect is agitated, as expected – but Rigsby's voice is a battlefield of disbelief and acceptance, which makes him smile. Good thing that in five years, they've had plenty of occasions to rehearse un-blind versions of this.
"Yeah so, uh, did you kill James Medina?" he asks, focussing on the man he knows to be less than three feet before him.
As the suspect answers, he takes a deep breath, listening intently to the variations in his voice. And for the first time since childhood, he finds himself making synaesthetic associations – something he tried to avoid when he was about twelve and his father started taunting him about the crossed wired in his brain. But he can nearly taste the man's anger on his tongue, a sweet and sour rightful thing with a hint of zest, and really – why not?
I'll take any help I can to make this work!
Then the suspect snaps his fingers, and the abnormally loud sound bounces off the walls, irritating his ears.
"Can I hold your hand?" he asks, stretching his own on the table.
There's a beat of silence, then a rush of breath before the man touches the back of his fingers to his.
Soft hands, slightly sweaty palm with deep creases. Long artistic fingers. Strong but steady pulse, lean muscles – working out, but not overly so. Angry, but not murderous. Smooth jaw. All bark and no bite.
"Don't do that!"
"Nice to talk with you, Terry. Be well," he says. "You can let him go," he adds, nodding toward where he's pretty sure Rigsby is.
"Uh, that's uh, not your call," says his colleague, voice still full of disbelief.
"Well, I didn't say you must let him go. I said that you can – if you want – being that he's innocent."
The suspect – who's not a suspect anymore, at least not in his mind – thanks him. He's just about to get up when a loud crash startles him.
"Jane!"
"Whoa! Oh, that was loud. That scared me."
"Up! You're getting out of here now."
Small fingers circle his biceps, impatiently pulling. As he lets Lisbon guide him out of the interrogation room, a rush of triumph makes his head swim, and he loses balance until she stabilises him. They walk together back to the bullpen, sweeping his cane around with his right hand, warm, compact and familiar shoulder under his left – and the wide grin on his face makes his cheeks hurt, but he doesn't care.
It's still working! I'm not useless!
"How many times do I have to tell you to stop interrupting interviews like that?" she says, annoyed.
"Oh, I'm sorry," he says – and she probably can hear the sheer joy in his voice, but he's too relieved to care.
His cane suddenly hits a pole and he stops, turns his back to it and removes the sunglasses from his nose, taken in by a sudden thought.
"What are you doing?" asks Lisbon, taken aback by his sudden stop.
"How will I know if I can see or not if I have bandages on?" he says, pulling on the pads covering his eyes, flinching when the tape sticks to his skin. "Ow. Here goes..."
It's silly, he knows, but he can't stop feeling a pang of disappointment when he opens his eyes and – nothing. It was going so well. Too well, perhaps.
"Black as night," he answers when Lisbon prompts him.
"I'm sorry," she says after a pause.
"Never mind. Andrews didn't do it."
"Did you sense that with your superpowers?" she asks, the teasing an obvious attempt to cheer him up.
And while he would usually clamp down on the rush of affection her caring often triggers these days, this time he lets himself be swept away.
"Yes, I did," he grins. "He's filled with anger, but uh, not the fearful, guilty, murderous anger – that has a tang of ammonia about it."
He's not alone anymore. He can do this.
"His is a more clean, righteous anger. Lemony."
"Lemony," she deadpans, repressed laughter dancing in her voice.
He will do this.
And that starts by...
"This blind thing really works! Without my vision, I can tune in my other senses much more clearly."
"That's great. Let me go make you a superhero costume. What do you wanna be called?"
... reacquainting oneself with familiar landmarks, he thinks as his fingers climb up her shoulder, brush lightly against neck and hair, then dance around her nose and lips.
"What are you doing?" she asks, nonplussed – muscles smoothly gliding up and down under his hand.
"I wanna know what your face feels like when you're smiling," he grins.
And she does smile, cheeks raising and dimples creasing at the tip of his fingers – but then she gasps softly, tension hardening her features, hands suddenly gripping his wrist in a painful squeeze.
"Uhm so – what's the deal, boss?" asks Rigsby in uneasy tones.
She drops his wrist as if burned, trying to get her breathing under control – and once again he finds himself massively confused, unable to make sense of what's going on around him.
What just happened?
"Have forensics check him for any explosive residue," she says, voice nearly back to normal. "If he comes up clean, let him go."
"Will do."
Rigsby's footsteps retreat, leaving them once again facing each other – or at least he thinks so. He can still hear her ragged breathing somewhere close, so he's fairly sure of it.
I want to see her, damn it!
"I'm still convinced there's a connection between Medina and me," he says lightly, in the hopes of preventing an escape he feels imminent. "So before you make me that superhero costume I'm looking forward to, could you take me to visit with his widow?"
"I'll go make an appointment," she says quietly, her footsteps retreating before he can say or do anything else about it.
The subdued lack of an answering, teasing banter in her voice confirms something is very, very wrong. Not with Rigsby being witness to his quirks or catching them in a potentially compromising position – something specific to him.
What did I do?!
Frustration and annoyance with himself aren't helping him come up with an answer, so by the time Lisbon comes back to tell him they're leaving in five minutes, he puts the issue aside to examine later. She seems to have done the same, or at least as much as she's able to – there's still undeniable tension in her voice. But he knows her, knows she won't respond to prompting, and without visual cues he feels less than confident in being able to guess the answer out of her.
Crap. What if I never get my vision back? What then?
A flash of light. Just a flash of light, she repeats to herself. A glint of sunlight catching on his wedding ring.
Alright, his back was against the windows – perhaps a spark coming off the printer, then. She didn't actually see a name, after all. Just a flash of silver. It could have been anything.
She scrunches her eyes hard. Self-deception can only go so far, she knows. Why is it so hard to admit the truth to herself?
"Boss," calls Cho.
"Yes," she says, opening her eyes again. "Got anything?"
"The address of a building Kraeger has been seen around last week."
"Let's go check it out."
He nods curtly. The squatters' dwellings are close by, enough that she doesn't bother walking back to the car – it's only two blocks away, and a short trip in the fresh air should help clear her mind. Cho raises his eyebrows, but follows without comment.
A light sting in the middle of her palm stops her from pulling the door open.
"Something's wrong," she says out loud, cursing herself immediately when Cho turns to her in alarm.
"What is it?"
"I have no idea, just – a feeling," she answers, hissing in pain when her hand is hit by a second sting, one sharper than the first. "God I'm starting to sound like Jane, sorry about that. Just – let me call the team, make sure everything's alright. Go ahead, I'll catch up."
Cho stares at her, eyes dropping briefly to her balled left hand, then nods and disappears into the building. She whips out her phone, signals Jane's number.
Straight to voice mail.
Crap! He must have closed it before settling in for a nap again.
She climbs the steps while waiting for Rigsby to answer, but fifteen rings later he still isn't picking up.
"Found Kraeger, Boss!" calls Cho from upstairs.
"Coming!" she yells back, signalling for Van Pelt as a last resort.
"Hi Boss! What's up?"
"Van Pelt! Is everything alright?" she asks immediately, eyeing Kraeger's wall with disbelief.
Cho is already interrogating the man.
"Yes, of course," answers Van Pelt, puzzled. "Why do you ask?"
"Where are Jane and Rigsby?"
"Rigsby I don't know, probably out getting food. Jane is on his couch just beside me. Is everything alright?"
"I don't know," she answers, frowning. "We found Paul Kraeger, Cho is talking with him right now. I guess we'll have answers very soon – "
"Hang on Boss, Jane wants to talk to you," Van Pelt interrupts her.
A new sharp sting makes her fingers twitch.
"Lisbon, you there?"
"Yes. Is everything alright?"
"You're bringing back closed-case pizza, right? I forgot to ask for a side of onion rings," he says, voice so calm she blinks twice at the non-sequitur before hearing the hidden plea for help.
We didn't close the case yet. Which means he did. Which means the killer...
"God, Jane," she groans. "Be careful. We're coming right back."
"Great! Thank you, that'd be really – "
The clicks and beeps of an interrupted phone call nearly freezes her blood with dread.
"Cho! We have to go back now!" she yells, running back to the stairwell.
She has no memory of the two-blocks run back to the SUV – all she knows is that Cho barely catches up with her as she pushes the key into the slot and turns, nearly breaking it in her rush and panic.
"You'll have an accident. Let me drive," he says firmly, opening the door and pulling on her arm.
She opens her mouth to argue, but pain courses through her hand relentlessly now – at a lower level than the day before, but enough to break her concentration, enough to hurt. And they're losing time so she just gets out, runs to the other side while her colleague takes her place.
"Kraeger had a son," he informs her while they rush through the streets. "Goes by Dan Hollenbeck since his mother remarried. Found out about his father living on the streets about three months ago, fits the timeline. He's probably our guy."
She nods, still trying to catch her breath – lingering anxiety makes it harder than usual.
"When I called earlier, Jane used code words to ask for help," she says. "Hollenbeck must have found a way to get inside. Rigsby didn't answer his phone, and when I talked to her, Van Pelt seemed to have no idea something was wrong so I'm guessing he hadn't make his move yet. But Jane – "
"He always knows," says Cho.
They drive quicker through the city, coming to a stop before the entrance to the parking lot.
"Go!" she says, already running toward the loud screams and crunching noises in the distance.
The first thing she sees on the scene is a Jeep going berserk, crashing into other cars as if driven by a toddler. She can't catch sight of who's behind the wheel, but Van Pelt's panicked voice soon makes it obvious.
Then she notices the man aiming a gun at the passengers through the broken window and the pain in her palm intensifying.
I can't aim. I'm too far!
She runs. The man's walk is confident, predatory. If she doesn't find a way to stop him now, he'll kill them. Her hand is spasming in agony. There's no time to think. Barely time to react.
Raising her right hand, supporting her aim on the trunk of a nearby car, she shoots.
The man falls.
"Oh," says Van Pelt. "Oh, thank God. Oh, thank God!"
She runs to them, pain abating in her palm, relief flooding her veins.
"What? What happened? Something good happened?" says Jane, still panicking.
"Didn't I say no excitement of any kind?" she answers, voice shaky.
She can hear Jane's deep sigh of relief as he lets his forehead fall on the wheel – she would do the same, really, but someone has to be responsible, take care of the aftermath. With trembling fingers, she opens the door to let Van Pelt out.
"Rigsby isn't answering his phone," she says. "Where did you see him last?"
"He was going to the bathroom," Van Pelt answers, eyes suddenly widening in panic. "Oh my God, he was with Dan!"
"Go check on him, I'll call an ambulance."
"I can't! I'm handcuffed."
"Did he take your keys?"
"No, they're still inside," says Van Pelt. "But I have loppers in the trunk, you could cut the chain?"
"Don't be silly, I have mine. Just turn around."
As soon as she's free, Van Pelt dashes off to the building's entrance and disappears inside. She takes a deep breath, goes back to the front and takes her phone out.
"911, what's your emergency?"
"I need paramedics at 1102 Q Street, Sacramento," she says, crouching over Hollenbeck.
No pulse.
Crap.
"One man down with a gunshot wound to the chest, two involved in a car crash, possibly more. We may need an ambulance."
"Someone call an ambulance, GSW here!" she hears Cho yelling from afar.
"One more gunshot wounded reported, we'll definitely need that ambulance," she adds urgently to the operator.
She gets back up, circles the front of the Jeep and opens the driver's door. Jane still has his forehead against the wheel, but at least his heavy breathing confirms he's alive.
Thank God.
"Hey," she says, reaching for him. "Jane. You alright?"
"M'fine," comes the muffled answer – which doesn't mean anything really, considering who's talking.
"A pizza themed call for help? That was a new one," she teases.
"Yeah. Did you get me my onion rings?" he chuckles weakly, and she lets out a relieved sigh.
He'll be fine.
"Come on, let's get you back inside," she says, rubbing his back lightly.
He arches slightly into her hand before raising his head, pushing on the dashboard as if lacking the energy to get up by himself. Which may well be the case, now that she thinks about it.
"Here, let me help you," she says, sliding his arm over her shoulders to help support his weight. "Mind the head! There you go. Van Pelt will have to replace that Jeep, you know. I don't think that's going to make her very happy."
"Meh. She'll be too busy worrying about Rigsby to care."
"Well, I hope you pay her back instead of just using what happened tonight as an excuse to brush up on your blind driving skills."
"Brush up on my – why, that's a great idea, Lisbon! Do you think Minelli would volunteer some of those dreadful SUVs for the test runs?"
Ambulances come screeching just as they start walking. Paramedics pick up Hollenbeck and Tommy, the latter thankfully still alive, and she directs two of them inside to check up on Rigsby and Van Pelt. True to form, Jane refuses to go back to the hospital.
"I just need rest," he says, stubborn but half draped all over her.
"You can barely stand straight. Let them examine you at least, just in case. Please?"
"Oh, alright," he mutters.
Fortunately for him, between Tommy, Rigsby and Hollenbeck's corpse, there's no space left – he gets discharged with advices to rest, stay hydrated, and move as little as possible for the next few days.
"I should drive you back home. Your neck is going to kill you if you sleep on that old couch tonight," she says as she helps him inside.
"My neck is already killing me, and this couch is more comfortable than any bed. Don't worry Lisbon, I'll be fine," he answers with a tired smile.
There's nothing more she can say to change his mind – he's already half-asleep, snuggled up on the supple leather. Rueful, she shakes her head and walks back to her office, where Cho is waiting for her.
"Van Pelt and I are going to the hospital with Rigsby," he says.
"Alright. Hollenbeck's death doubles the number of incident reports I need to fill in, I'll be here for a while. Call me as soon as you have news, will you? And tell Van Pelt I'll need her forms completed tomorrow afternoon."
"Yes, Boss."
The quietness falling on the office rekindles her frayed nerves and, as soon as she finds herself alone in the building, she stops trying to fill reports. Her hands are shaking too badly.
That was – too close. Way too close.
And while she usually deals well with threats to her unit, accepts them as the normal risks involved in being cops, this time she knows she isn't coping as she should be. She panicked. Twice now.
I never panic.
It could be because Jane is a civilian, and she feels it's her duty to protect him – that it's her job as a cop, as the better-trained person, and multiple threats to his life in such a short time span are bound to rattle her.
It could be because she genuinely likes him and, if she's honest with herself, she likes the way he never seems to care about authority and power – even if that gets them both in trouble every single week. She's slowly learning to consider him a friend – a strange kind of friend, one she doesn't trust one bit, but a friend nonetheless.
It could be because he's a member of her team, a member of her found family. Someone she cares for, someone she feels responsible for, someone she wants to keep alive against all odds, no matter what.
And all of those are good, sensible, accurate reasons to explain away her quivering fingers, the slow shattering she feels inside.
But they are not the truth.
The truth is, the truth is, Jane –
Jane is my soulmate.
She closes her eyes.
She doesn't understand why God saw fit to inflict her with an emotionally unavailable, unstable human being who lies and cheats and plays games without a care for what is right or wrong, without a care for whom he hurts on his way to get what he wants. She doesn't understand, but there's only a certain amount of denial she can allow herself before facing hard truths heads on, and this isn't the time for fighting against it anymore.
Jane is her soulmate and it's not going to change, even if she prayed everyday.
And for all that she feels stuck inside facing this alone, she isn't even sure she wants it to change anyway. Because while very aware of his faults, she can see past them – she doesn't trust him, fine, but she trusts that he's a decent man under all the lies and defence mechanisms. And she does admire his brilliance, enjoy his wile.
She likes him, and tonight she killed to save him.
It won't be the last time, she knows – it wasn't even the first time. He's much too reckless with his own life, and that's the other part of her problem, isn't it?
How do you save someone who doesn't want to be saved?
Sleep eludes him, once again.
It isn't a lack of tiredness – the emotional roller coaster of the last two days saw to that. His neck and back hurt, and maybe that's part of the problem – his muscles are so hard and knotted he can't find a comfortable position. The cold and soft leather under his cheek makes him shiver, and for the first time in over five years, he wouldn't begrudge himself some small earthly comforts. Like a pillow, for instance. A pillow would be nice.
But over everything else, his mind won't shut up.
That's the real problem, right there – his mind just won't shut up and let him sleep. And while Red John is his usual subject of nocturnal rumination, this time his thoughts are flitting around instead, bouncing from one subject to another without means to prevent or direct them, and exhausting him over the point of sleep.
Blind blind blind what if I can't get my vision back – Lisbon's smile is as pretty to touch as to see – is Rigsby going to be okay – what if they throw me out – what if I can't catch Red John – why did Lisbon react that way when I touched her face – Carol Gentry NO don't think about that – why was Lisbon afraid earlier – short-term memory loss they said did I forget something important – did I forget something about my girls – how will I find Red John if I'm blind blind blind –
After more than an hour of tossing and turning and trying to calm down – at least he thinks it's been an hour – he has enough. The pads over his eyes are itching something fierce and his throat is parched. With a soft groan, he gets himself back into a sitting position, finds his cane after a few seconds of fumbling around, and stands up. Against all odds, being upright is less painful than his previous lying position.
Walking, on the other side, is as slow and difficult a process as expected.
"Jane, what are you doing?"
He startles, drops his cane.
"Oh! Lisbon, you scared me. What are you still doing here?"
"What do you think I'm doing here?" she gripes. "I'm not done with the paperwork. Better question yet, what are you doing up? Didn't the paramedics tell you to stay put?"
"They also told me to stay hydrated, and I wanted tea."
She sighs noisily – a rush of breath tickles past his cheek. There's a small click he can't identify, but then she presses his cane back into his palm. She must have picked it up.
"Just – go back to your couch, I'll get you some."
"Sitting hurts. I'd really rather stay on my feet," he says, stretching his left hand in her direction – trying to reach her shoulder, hitting the side of her head instead.
"Ouch!"
"Sorry, sorry... To the kitchen, then? Please?"
"Fine. Come on."
Fine hair are brushing his knuckles, and he didn't realise just how cold he was before he feels the warmth of her skin under his fingertips. Tea will be welcome, in more ways than one.
"Is chamomile okay for you?" she asks. "There isn't any caffeine in it, it should allow you to sleep better."
"Caffeine isn't very effective on me," he says, keeping his hand on her shoulder. "And normal tea is more – comforting. Earl Grey, please?"
The way her muscles move as she reaches up to pick a cup and teabag is fascinating – Lisbon is warm and familiar and real under his hands, and focusing on her suddenly seems the perfect way to shut his mind up. His fingers follow the length of her arm, taking in creases and seams of fabric, light shivers and rolling muscles under bare skin, until they rest on her wrist.
"What are you doing?" she asks, suddenly very still.
He frowns before realising how deeply entrenched in her personal space he is, their bodies a breath apart, his arms encircling her and her hair tickling his nose. Another woman perhaps would have relaxed in his embrace – he can't remember a woman in his past who didn't, to be honest – but Lisbon? No, Lisbon merely stiffens and waits to be released, and that – that's interesting.
"Showing you how to make a good cup of tea," he answers on a whim, applying careful pressure on her wrist.
Explaining to her how he got distracted by his sense of touch really isn't an option.
"You could do that with words, you know," she answers, trying for annoyance but coming off wryly amused instead.
"I tried that earlier with Rigsby, with obvious results," he grins. "Let me?"
She shuffles a bit, but the way she relaxes minutely lets him know she'll let him do as he wishes – and that too is interesting, how she lets him get away with so many intimate gestures without a word of protest. Granted, he slowly roped her into it along the years, but still.
"The water is nearly boiling," she says. "Go on."
"Uhm, yes. First, the milk – not too much, I'm lactose intolerant. Just a drop. Count half a second."
"I can't count half a second!"
"Of course you can – pour the milk down and back up before you get to 'one'. Thaaaat's it... see? You can!"
"Don't patronise me," she growls.
He chuckles.
"Now put the teabag in the milk... don't drop the thread."
"Jane. I'm not stupid."
"I never said you were," he grins. "Now wait until the water truly boils, shouldn't be long now. There, hear that? Bubbles!"
"Bubbles," she repeats. "You're like a kid, I swear. Now what?"
"Now you pour water until it reaches half an inch under the rim, and..."
As soon as the water stops trickling, he gently enfolds her wrist, pulling it up, then down, then up again four times to dunk the teabag in the mix of water and milk, until he deems it enough and directs her hand toward the sink.
"Et voilà," he says, smiling, breathing in the wafts of bergamot tea, light almond pastry and –
Cinnamon?
"Are you sniffing me?! Jane! That's enough now, move."
"Ouch! Stop that, woman!"
He chuckles lightly, trying to avoid the sharp elbows pushing him away.
"Come on, let's get you out of my hair and back to your couch," she says, her voice laced with a strange mix of annoyance, embarrassment and – just a hint of something else he isn't sure he identifies well.
Arousal?! That can't be right.
Cursing his blindness once again, he feels the air before him, trying to find her in the empty space. There's a clicking sound of porcelain on his left, and he assumes it means she picked up his teacup. Then she meets his searching hand with one of hers, gently but firmly placing it on her shoulder, and he finds himself momentarily taken aback by the sheer heat he feels through the fabric of her shirt.
"Uhm, actually – would you mind taking me to the one in your office?" he asks, as they walk slowly back to the bullpen.
"My couch? You're always complaining about how uncomfortable it is!"
The pulse fluttering under his fingertips skips a beat. He frowns.
"It is, but it's also – plushier. The leather on mine is cold."
"What you need is a blanket, not a plushy couch," she says. "You need to sleep in a bed, Jane. Are you sure you don't want me to drive you back home?"
"No," he answers, voice low. "I can't sleep in that hotel room. Couch please?"
"Don't say I didn't warn you tomorrow when you wake up with a crick in your neck."
He grins, hums a little, and she sighs impatiently but helps him settle in her office nonetheless, just like he knew she would. Then she rummages around in her storage cupboards, filling the room with clicks and claps and muttering – he isn't quite sure what she's doing until she comes back near him and touches smooth fabric to his hand.
"Here," she says, and he would blink if his eyes weren't stuck under itchy cotton pads.
"Is that a pillow? Oooh, and a blanket! Really?"
"Should do the trick, yeah?"
"Yes! Thank you, Lisbon," he says, burying his nose in the cushion and kicking off his shoes to wrap himself in the comforter. "How come you have those in your office?"
"Meh, you know. Habit from my SFPD days," she says, giving him back the cup of tea.
"Didn't peg you for the kind of girl to sleep on the job," he says, teasing.
"I kept them for a friend," she answers, and he can just imagine how she's rolling her eyes at him.
They stay silent for a while – him sipping tea, trying his best to stop thinking, she scratching her pen on paper forms, working relentlessly, until suddenly he realises he doesn't hear her writing anymore.
"Everything okay?" he asks.
"Yeah, it's fine," she answers distractedly.
Then she swallows, puts down her pen, takes a deep breath – and he knows he doesn't want to have this conversation with her, whatever it is about. Every warning sign she gives off screams this is serious, and he really isn't in the mood for life-changing discussions.
"Jane, I – you know, maybe we should talk about – "
And that's the moment her phone starts ringing, making them both jump guiltily, like kids caught baking mud cakes in their grandmother's oven. Her pen clatter on the ground and she curses softly.
"Crap, hang on – Lisbon. Oh, Cho! How's Rigsby? Just a concussion? That's great. Tell him I don't want to see him before Monday morning. No, really – if he tries to pull a Jane and come in tomorrow, I'll kick his ass. Yeah, you tell him that."
He smiles, puts his empty cup and sunglasses on the floor near one end of the couch, and lets his head fall on the cushion-turned-pillow, squashing the impulse that makes him want to hide under the blanket. A deep breath brings more of that delicious almond pastry smell to his nose, and his smile widens before he can think of stopping.
"Uh-huh. Yeah. What? No, don't bother – just come back in the morning. Of course I'm sure! Don't be ridiculous."
She hangs up after a few more seconds of conversation, and he knows if he wants to derail her before she starts again, he must speak now.
"This pillow smells like you," he says in sleepy tones – ones he's shocked to realise aren't nearly as fake as he thought they would be.
"Like me?"
She appears taken aback, which of course is exactly what he wanted.
"Yes – and incidentally, you're smelling – " he yawns " – particularly good today. Is that cinnamon in the mix somewhere?"
"Good night, Jane," she says, her voice a perfect blend of wry amusement and disbelief.
Just like Icarus, he thinks, half-asleep now. Striving to be free of Red John with everything he is, but Lisbon's sun has always been burning so brightly.
One day, one day he'll have to stop and think hard on the reasons why he keeps around her, even when he knows the best thing to do would be to run away as far, as quick as possible. There's a masochistic strike in there somewhere he'll have to own to and consider the consequences of, before the unavoidable meltdown.
But not now.
For now, and as long as he can, he'll enjoy the warmth, the light, the life she radiates around her, even if he needs to distract her from times to times to avoid soulful conversations he doesn't want to get into.
Cold will take over soon enough, anyway.
Morning finds her still hunched over paperwork, rubbing tired eyes every fifteen minutes and wishing for coffee. She did think about calling it a night and going back home once or twice, but the sight of Jane's sleeping form always prevented any retreat. Something about the vulnerable slant of his mouth and his balled fists keeps reminding her that he's hurt, he's blind – and he did crash Van Pelt's car, even if he managed to avoid further apparent injuries. He could need assistance.
Of course, come seven o'clock she's fully ready to give up, or at least let someone else take care of him.
When she drops her pen on the floor for the third time in a row, she lets her head fall on her arms. Perhaps she can take a nap, catch a few minutes or even half an hour of sleep before the team comes in, before they get a new case. But her mind isn't on board with that plan, and soon she finds herself rehashing specific events of the last two days.
Jane unwilling to run even as both their hands are burning, even as she begs and screams in agony.
The silver flash in his palm as he reaches out to touch her face.
The pain in her hand, once again, as she empties her gun on Hollenbeck to save his life.
The heat of his body pressed against her back, the tickle of his breath on her neck, the warmth of his fingers on her wrist as he uses suggestive gestures to make tea.
Make tea my ass! What the hell was he playing at?!
He's never been cruel before – playfully teasing and flirting, sure, unwilling to respect her boundaries and encroaching in her personal space, always. But never before did he deliberately use seduction in his little games – and that's the very reason she allows him more liberties than she would from anyone else.
Jane is safe.
There's never been any ambiguity between them because he never shown any hint of lust or desire toward her – toward anyone really, something she always chalked up to grieving. And she was always more comfortable around boys, so what's not to like about that kind of platonic friendship?
No awkward factor. Perfect.
Which is why yesterday's incident confuses her so much. Teasing her that way, when they both know he isn't interested in following on it, is just – cold. Utterly unlike him. And her own response perhaps baffles her the most.
I'm not even attracted to him, for God's sake!
And just as Jane starts stirring under the blanket she never lost the habit of keeping for Sam, she realises there's only one possible conclusion.
She's compromised.
He didn't change – she did. She let herself be affected by the knowledge, irreversible proof of what they are to each other. Working with Jane was hard enough already – working with her soulmate won't be possible at all.
Especially if he keeps messing with her that way.
She'll have to go to Minelli, ask him to do something so that they won't have to see each other on the job anymore. Either give Jane to a new team leader, or – or perhaps give her another team.
It also means she'll have to give up the Red John case. Perhaps it's for the best. Five years they've been working that case, and nothing to show for it.
She does her best to ignore the sickening feeling in her stomach caused by the mere idea of giving up.
"Lisbon, you still here?" Jane asks, voice scratchy.
"I'm here," she says, face still in her arms.
"What time is it?"
She raises her head with a light groan, checks up her watch.
"Half past seven," she answers, watching him stretch and scratch his head with both hands. "Watch out, there's a teacup near your foot."
"Oh. Thank you."
He yawns, now scratching around his bandages.
"Don't touch that," she says, tired.
"Come on, it's a new day. I want to see!"
She lets her head fall back on her arms, unwilling to engage in banter after a sleepless night.
"Lisbon?" he asks, unsure.
When she looks up again, she's surprised to notice his bandages are still on.
"Are you seriously waiting for my permission?" she says, voice laced with disbelief. "Do what you want, Jane, I'm not your mother."
"Thank goodness for that," he grins.
He's already pulling on his eye pads. Cheek in one hand, elbow on her desk, she waits. If anything, his closed eyes in awaken features make him look even more vulnerable than when he was sleeping with bandages on, and she curses herself and her motherly instincts.
Then he opens his eyes, blinks a few time – and when he focuses on her and smiles, she can't help but smile back.
"Hey," she says.
"Oh, you have no notion of how good it is to see you," he answers, getting up. "Even if you look like death warmed over."
She flicks a pen at him when he breaks into a teasing smile.
"Very funny," she says, rolling her eyes.
She isn't in the mood for his games – not after yesterday evening, not with him, and especially not now. And as usual he doesn't listen, or perhaps doesn't care.
"Come on," he says, suddenly by her side and pulling on her arm. "When was the last time you slept? Let me get you a coffee and something to eat. My treat."
She bites her lip – the offer is so tempting – but shakes her head and stands up, mindful of her decision. If they are fated to feel attraction to each other, better put some distance between them as soon as she can – which means now.
"No thanks. I was planning on taking a shower downstairs before work, breakfast can wait," she says. "You could use a change of clothes yourself," she adds, pointing to the many wrinkles in the fabric of his suit."
He shrugs, a boyish grin on his lips.
"Breakfast first, shower later. I'll bring you back something," he says before leaving.
Warm water falling on her head usually works wonders to dispel tiredness and clear her mind – this time, however, the name flashing silver in her hand keeps distracting her. Who would be willing to work with Jane? Who could even handle him on a daily basis? She barely can. Her team barely can.
Damn it, why did he turned out to be my soulmate?! It complicates everything!
"Hi Boss," says Cho when she comes back upstairs, hair curling and skin still damp from the shower's steam.
"Hey Cho. Any news of Rigsby?"
"The hospital is releasing him later today," he answers, looking up from the forms he's filling.
And meeting his stoic stare, she finally gets the answer she was seeking.
"Good. I – uh, I'd like you to meet me in my office. There's something I need to discuss with you."
She has to do it now, before she baulks. And perhaps, a little, before Jane comes back from his breakfast run – before he gets the chance to change her mind with his easygoing, charming ways.
"What's up, Boss?"
"Take a seat," she says, straightening her piles of paperwork.
He does so without a word. She puts both hands flat on her desk and looks at him, trying to gather some small amount of courage to make this real.
"How would you like to lead your own team?" she finally asks.
He stares at her a full three seconds impassively, probably trying to guess if she's joking or not. When he realises she isn't, he gets up, closes the door and comes sit back.
"You're doing this because your hand was hurting yesterday," he says plainly. "And because Jane is your soulmate."
She swallows. Of course Cho would have guessed. But this is great, really. It means she's doing the right thing.
"Yes," she answers. "I'm compromised. But you are a great agent, and if you are willing, I would like you to lead a new unit. Jane would be part of it, and you'd get the Red John case – I'll arrange everything with Minelli, of course."
He stares some more, then crosses his arms and leans back in his chair.
"Permission to speak plainly," he asks.
"Sure, go on."
"Are you in a relationship with Jane?"
"Absolutely not!" she says, a small pit of dread opening up in her stomach.
"Didn't think so. Are you in love with him?"
"No!"
"Then how are you compromised?" he asks, small smirk playing at the corner of his lips.
She opens her mouth, then closes it, powerless to think of anything except the obvious.
"He's my soulmate," she says – small shock waves running through her mind and body as she admits it out loud for the first time. "It's against CBI regulation to work together with someone you're involved with and – "
"He's your soulmate, not your lover," interrupts Cho. "You aren't in a relationship and neither of you are mooning over each other like Rigsby and Van Pelt. You aren't doing anything wrong. And Jane gets in trouble all the time – the stings in your hand would be way more useful if he was part of your team."
Completely flabbergasted, she finds herself unable to come up with counter-arguments.
Because he's right, says a small voice in her head. He's completely right, you know it, and you're overreacting like a teenager with a silly crush on a teacher.
"Look Boss," he says. "Society and culture in America focus on soulmates being something romantic, but it doesn't have to be like that. I studied that, it's like a trend someone started hundreds of years ago – most of the western countries do the same now, but the words they use to talk about soulmates give hints that it wasn't always like that. Take Russia, for example – their definition translates better to 'kindred spirits' than our definition of 'soulmates'. And in France, they call it 'sibling souls'. It's kind of creepy when your language tells you you're supposed to fall in love with your sister."
He smiles, dimples creasing in his cheeks. She chuckles – feeling just a little better suddenly.
"In Korean, the words we use mean 'other self' in English'," he adds. "And in most Asian countries, it's completely forbidden to engage in a romantic relationship with your soulmate. It's even worse than incest, because they believe soulmates are two halves of the same soul – it would be like marrying and having children with yourself. Some places even go as far as considering children of two soulmates being brothers and sisters, so they can't marry either even if they aren't related by blood."
"It must have been a shock for your parents when they saw how America treated the whole soulmate business."
"Yeah, it was. My point is, this?" he says, raising his left palm. "It doesn't have to mean anything. So – if you really don't want to work with me or Jane anymore, that's fine. But if it's just because of the soulmate thing, I like working with you and I'm in no hurry to be team leader."
"Sheepdip," she grins.
"Not if it means I become Jane's boss," he grins back. "We good?"
"Yeah," she says, rubbing her bleary eyes. "Thank you."
"No problem."
She calls back, just before he opens the door.
"Please, uhm, don't tell anyone about this?"
"Of course not."
"Not even Jane," she adds, biting the inside of her cheek.
"I won't."
"I'll come back to you about this tomorrow," she adds.
He displays just a hint of hesitation before leaving, but then nods and walks back to his desk in the bullpen, greeting Van Pelt on his way.
And now that she has time to think about it –
Crap. He's right.
– she remembers her mother holding a similar speech years and years ago, when she was barely seven and learning to read. Granted, she probably only told her she may not want to marry her soulmate in a misguided attempt to prevent her from being attracted to women –
Not that her little speech would have changed anything in the end.
– but the message holds true, and shakes her to the core.
It doesn't have to be complicated.
"Hey Lisbon."
And of course, there he is, all sunny grin and warm eyes – right in time to test her new-found resolutions.
"Hey Jane," she answers, smile tugging at the corner of her lips.
Alright. He's charming, I can give him that. But –
"You look better," he says, putting a cup of coffee on her desk.
"I feel better," she admits. "How was the trip outside?"
"Uh, it was good! Great to see again. A little lonely perhaps," he teases.
– it doesn't mean I have to want him. Because I don't. And that's –
"Next time I'll come with you. If you've been a good boy," she teases right back.
"Really?" he says, raising his eyebrows and grinning like a loon. "I'd better get on to it then."
She rolls her eyes as he saunters away to wreck havoc somewhere else.
– that's the truth, actually. I don't want him. Wow. That's a relief.
No more touching, though. Touching isn't something she can allow herself, not with him. Well, perhaps in emergencies, she amends – but him not respecting her boundaries doesn't mean she has to grow lax with them too. And she's sorry because she realises he may need it, but if she wants to keep her sanity, avoid any more situations like yesterday...
No. More. Touching.
She takes a sip of coffee, eyes following him as he flits around the bullpen, going from Cho to Van Pelt to his couch and back up again like an odd golden-haired butterfly.
Then she smiles.
'Sibling souls' in France.
That's alright. She can do siblings. She has three brothers already – what is one more? And Jane is like a child most of the time, something she enjoys about as much as she resents when they're working on a case. None of her brothers were ever quite like him, but that doesn't matter, does it?
'Other self' in Korea.
She refrains from laughing out loud. That one could become very awkward, very quickly. However, their respective talents, their respective personalities are complementary – and maybe that's how it works. Pieces of a puzzle made to be embed at the seam instead of perfect replicas of one another.
'Kindred spirits' in Russia.
This one – this one she likes. Because they've always been so different from one another, but she hasn't yet found someone who challenges her like Jane does. Who makes her strive to be better, even if just to pull him up with her. They are wired so differently it's a miracle they get along at all, but they always pull through and meet each other somehow, as if coming from different angles to get to the same midpoint – though she will admit to bending toward him more than she probably should.
More importantly – if she has to be honest with herself, Jane more than anyone in her team feels like home.
And perhaps that's all it needs to be.
Kindred will be going into a short hiatus for the next three months.
First, if I'm not mistaken, in our world the 'romantic soulmates' definition comes from China, which has numerous detailed legends and traditions about it. It's very interesting and you should check it out.
In this story however, as Cho explained, while Asian countries still have a long tradition of romantic soulmates, the name in people's palms means something very different.
See you early May!