Disclaimer: As you probably guessed by now, this show and its characters aren't mine.
A/N: Many thanks to LouiseKurylo and Thorntons, whose advices proved invaluable for the writing of this chapter.
Warnings: PTSD symptoms, including but not limited to visual and emotional flashbacks, irrational thinking patterns, and dissociation/derealisation. Canon over-sedation leading to major confusion and memory loss, with everything it entails.
Second warnings: I hope I don't have to remind you that, should you encounter an unresponsive person, you need to seek urgent medical assistance even if their condition doesn't seem life-threatening. Aka, even accounting for the embedded 'Lisbon-safety' alarm bell in his hand, Jane in this chapter is an irresponsible idiot.
Spoilers: Some dialogues are taken directly from 2.03 "Red Badge". Slight allusion to events occurring in 1.02 "Red Hair and Silver Tape" and 1.16 "Bloodshot".
Kindred
Part 8
His hand starts prickling just as he finishes his meal.
He doesn't notice right away. His mind is elsewhere. Full of satisfaction after having played Bosco, and successfully planting the bug in his office – in such a timely manner, too. Full of mirth after overhearing him trying to browbeat Lisbon, and getting the tables turned on him. Full of –
– something, anyway. How did he miss all those rumours? Getting revenge on naysayers would have made for so many hours of entertainment while Lisbon was away.
The taco had more hot sauce than usual, and his hands are covered in the stuff – assuming its heat is irritating some micro-cut in his palm isn't that much of a stretch.
Just some random, distracting body input.
Nothing to worry about.
Then the prickling becomes throbbing – and he inhales sharply, picks up the phone in his pocket, uncaring how much sauce he butters it with.
No answer.
He starts running.
He thought, all those weeks ago, that his hand burning while Lisbon was facing the wrong end of a shotgun was terrible. Not the worst – not the worst by a long shot – but certainly one of the worst things he ever had to go through.
Right up there, in the top five of his own personal list of horrors.
And it was. It was, but this – his hand burning without having the faintest idea of what is threatening her – this is so much worse.
He gets to the building, by-passes security before anyone can stop him, takes a quick trip up the stairs, across the hallway and directly to her office. It's empty. His hand is burning steadily, a low heat not strong enough to hurt but noticeable, and where is she?!
Van Pelt half rises in alarm when he emerges in the bullpen, short of breath and sweating.
"Where's Lisbon?" he asks, trying to keep his voice steady.
"Uh, she went home half an hour ago. Why?"
"Are you sure?
"Well, that's what she said. Jane, what's going on?"
"Never mind."
Pain in his hand flashes bright and searing for a second, and he clenches his teeth, picks up his phone a second time. Time stretches wide as he waits for her to answer, and waits, and waits – then finds himself unable to wait any longer.
Phone still glued to his ear, he runs back to her office and looks through her files until he finds the one titled 'Team: Home and Emergency Contact'. Calls another time when he reaches voice mail. One glance to memorise her address, then he sprints right out to the parking lot.
He calls again as he turns the contact. Three times he reached voice mail now.
Answer, damnit!
"Yeah?" suddenly says a strange voice at the other end of the line.
"Lisbon?" he frowns.
The voice is hers, but the speech pattern is all wrong – robotic and muted, without a trace of her signature expressiveness.
"Yeah," she repeats, just as he's about to call to her again.
"Lisbon, finally! Is everything alright?"
"Fine."
She doesn't sound fine at all.
"What happened? I felt my – I mean – where are you? Are you home?"
Silence.
"Talk to me!" he nearly yells. "Do I need to call for help? You were in danger just now. You still are! What is – "
"I gotta go," she interrupts, still oddly muted. "Gotta – gotta go. Call you later."
"Lisbon, wait!"
She hangs up.
Five full seconds he stays staring ahead, dead phone silent on his ear, mouth half-open in disbelief, lost in pictures of danger and fear and death and blood and screams and –
Then panic pushes him into action. How much time to get to Lisbon's place? Half an hour, tops? He can probably get there in fifteen, as long as he avoids traffic. Fifteen minutes is a long time, long enough to drown, to die from blood loss, but no longer than ambulances take to respond to an emergency, no longer than – than –
Fifteen minutes is a long time, and he better get there fast.
The burning is down to a prickle again, there's that at least – how much of a threat can a prickle mean, anyway? Last time it didn't truly hurt until Tanner was up and pointing the shotgun at her, but the warning prickles started long before he was even off the gurney. Are murderous thoughts directed at her enough to cause his soulmark to react, or is he just unnaturally sensitive to pain in that hand, just as he doesn't deal well with pain in general? And even if murderous thoughts were enough to cause his palm to heat up, who would be foolish enough to direct theirs toward a cop?
Red John, whispers his mind.
But that's absurd. Isn't it? The very fact Lisbon is a woman should make her safe from him – Red John's a misogynist, and his killings have all the markings of sexual hate crimes. Killing her would risk his case getting into the hands of a man.
He winces when he remembers Lisbon currently doesn't have the case.
But still, that makes no sense. Why would he target Lisbon? He has no reason to – she should be beneath his notice, anyway. Tanner said Red John wanted him personally. Not the team. Not Lisbon. Him. If he, Patrick Jane, is the primary target, what reason would Red John have to threaten Lisbon?
Unless –
Unless Red John knows about –
– about –
His left hand tightens on the wheel while his right changes gears, foot crushing the clutch pedal, then the throttle, accelerating his already mad pace.
No. He can't know. That's impossible.
Right?
He can't – there's no way he could have known.
But –
– they never figured out how Red John got away that night at Sparrows Peak. Was he already gone when he shot Tanner? Or was he still around, looking from a distance? Was he perhaps close by, mixed in with local PD and CSI techs?
Did he see Lisbon wash the blood off his hands, and the way he grasped at her afterwards?
I'll never be able to let her out of my sight again.
He narrowly misses another car, and slows down just enough to get back in control of the vehicle. A man out on the street curses at him, but he's already too far away to make out the words – not that he cares about them in the first place.
Then again, if Red John doesn't know –
The heat in his left hand is down to a tickle, only noticeable if he pays close attention – and that allows him to re-engage his brain enough to know he can't park near her place. His Citroën is too widely recognisable.
Cho was able to guess something from the way they are around each other – and while he has nothing but respect for Cho's cleverness, even if it doesn't reach his own, there's no denying that Red John is smarter.
And if Red John doesn't know, then it means he needs to lay low, because –
– rushingtoacrimesceneNOshe'snotdeadnotdeadnotdead –
– rushing to her place in those circumstances certainly isn't subtle.
One quick turn around a corner, and he's two blocks from her apartment. He parks on the street, breaks into a quick jog. Five more minutes – and as soon as he gets nearby, he zooms in on her mustang sprawled across two spaces. Cold sweat breaks over his back.
This isn't normal.
He tries calling again, but she doesn't answer. The skin on his left palm tickles, bright little sparks of heat going on and off, on and off like a light switch, steady like a heartbeat. Is it reacting to his, or to the silences between hers?
He needs to find her now.
Unwilling to lose any more time, he runs up the stairs to Lisbon's front door.
It's locked.
He doesn't bother knocking – instead takes out his lock-picking kit and opens it as quickly as he can, hands fumbling on the handle and blood pounding in his ears.
"Lisbon?" he calls, as soon as he's inside.
No answer.
No answer, but –
– her badge is on the ground, right below the first step of a staircase.
"Lisbon!" he yells.
Still no answer.
Terror strikes him as he dashes up the stairs, and reaches heightened levels as he darts through a short hallway at the end of which is a single door. A dark brown one, and the door is ajar, and there's no note taped to it, but he finds himself suddenly unable to take a step further – unable to move at all, until dark butterflies dance before his eyes and he realises he stopped breathing as well.
Someone is panting heavily perhaps behind the door – no, those are his own gasps, painful and laboured – and he can't open that door can't look behind can't – can't –
– but –
– but flashes of Angela's smile and Charlotte's curls and their blood spread on bed sheets and his hand still not completely inert and he can't take the chance to lose the only person who still matters to him.
With quivering hands, he pushes the door open and peeks inside.
The wall is bare.
But the deep relieved breath he was about to take never makes it to his lungs when he sees the small form curled up on itself, face buried in a pillow under the deep red blanket.
"Lisbon!"
He rushes to her side, pulling off the blanket in one fell swoop – she'll yell at him later, he doesn't care, he just needs to make sure the colour is dye not blood not blood not blood, and she's not moving not answering not – not – no –
His lungs are whistling softly every time he exhales, as if trying to push air through water – and the sound for a moment confounds him because it echoes twice, until he realises the second noise is more like a purr and isn't coming from him.
– she's breathing she's breathing she's breathing thank goodness she's breathing –
Relief makes him fall to his knees. He crawls up on the bed, reaches out with unsteady arms, and rolls her on her back. She doesn't wake up, but her chest is rising and falling steadily, and his own can finally do the same. Fingers find the pulse on her neck, and it's there – faint, but there, and as steady as her breathing. His entire body is cramping from the stress but he doesn't care because she's alive alive alive alive alive –
A small whimper passes his lips as he curls against her. Fingers on warm skin, straining his ears for every breath she takes, he closes his eyes and focuses on breathing not weeping just breathing calm calm calm everything is fine she's alive no blood anywhere no smiling face on the wall –
A phone ringing brings him back to reality before he can get his heartbeat completely under control.
The call can go to voice mail for all he cares – right now he needs to think. Forcing his fingers to let go of her pulse, he pushes himself back into a sitting position, lightly scratches his chin with knuckles that feel like rubber. When the annoying device stops making annoying noises, he takes a short intake of breath, gets up, and clinically examines Lisbon's sleeping form.
Why isn't she waking up?
As far as he can tell, the heat in his palm has abated – the threat to her life is gone. Her lips are rosy, but her cheeks are pale – no carbon monoxide poisoning then, and no respiratory failure as far as he can see.
He still walks to the window and opens it a crack, just in case.
Her skin is warm but not dry, and she isn't sweating – just sleeping. She's fully clothed, blazer over gun over tank top, so that means he didn't interrupt an assault either. No criminal worth their salt would leave a victim with a gun, especially not someone like Lisbon who knows better than most how to use hers.
He frowns, and after a small hesitation, pinches her arm.
She moans, but doesn't wake.
Not in a coma. Sedated, then.
Mind working in overdrive, he unclasps her holster, puts it on the bedside table in an attempt to make her more comfortable, then pulls the blanket over her again. Starts pacing back and forth before her bed, glancing at her unmoving form every time he turns.
She's sleeping. Call EMT? No. Her life isn't in danger – not anymore. And if this is Red John, an ambulance would scare him away.
Pace, turn. Glance. Pace, turn. Glance.
I need to be there when he breaks in. I need to be prepared.
Pace, turn. Glance. Picks up the holster, clasps it around his hips. Adjusts the gun to be easily reachable when needed. Glances again. Pace, turn.
He must have asked someone else to do it for him, in case something turned wrong. So Red John has a friend in the CBI.
Pace, turn. Frown. Glance. Paces again.
Who? Someone close enough to drug her –
Gasps. Stops.
Someone who's been drugging her for weeks!
How could he miss something so obvious? It explains everything – the headaches, the moodiness, the tiredness. The lack of energy stretching long after she should have recovered from the shock of the shooting – and worse, the disappearance of her symptoms when she was in Chicago, and their reappearance mere days after her return.
Hindsight is 20/20 – if he lets himself think back on those last few weeks, he'll probably be able to come up with a dozen other things that didn't make sense at the time.
And that means –
– this is not Red John.
Slipping drugs to someone has never been part of his M.O. – on the contrary, he's a sadist who wakes up his victims in order to enjoy their screams. Granted, he's been known to break pattern before, but never that much.
Unless –
He starts pacing again.
Unless he was planning to kidnap her. It's the only way that would make sense.
But whoever drugged Lisbon nearly had a whole hour to whisk her away between the moment his palm started heating and the moment he got to her. Besides, why let her get to her own place without harm, if the intent was to do harm in the first place?
No, this is someone else. Someone with an entirely different purpose.
But who could have done that – and why?
He stops again. Lisbon is resting peacefully, left hand trapped under her cheek – hiding her soulmark from his gaze even in sleep. His lips quirk up, just a little, until his eyes fall on the empty space beside her.
Lying down would be ideal – his best thinking is always done on his couch, head on the armrest at parallel height with his feet. But with an impending adrenaline crash looming over, lying on a soft surface is an invitation to sleep, and he has no intention of playing Goldilocks tonight.
If only because falling asleep beside Mama Bear is a clear invitation to murder, and not from Red John either.
He needs caffeine. Tea. Does Lisbon even have tea?
Only one way to find out.
He closes the blinds, making sure no shooter can target her sleeping form from afar – paranoia is only paranoia if there isn't someone actually trying to get you – and after a last lingering glance he walks downstairs, leaving the door ajar.
Somewhere between the hallway and the kitchen, a blanket of surreality falls over his mind. Sounds become muted, sensations just slightly distorted, leaving him with disquiet and the strange feeling of floating through a dream.
If only it was so simple.
A quick search through the cupboards yields what looks like an ancient half-crushed box of chamomile tea – he isn't quite sure, because the cardboard picture is so faded he can't make out the words. But the smell seems right, if a bit dusty.
Which of Lisbon's brothers is a tea drinker? Oh, perhaps her niece. She wouldn't be allowed coffee at her age.
Lisbon doesn't seem to have a kettle, but there's a coffee maker beside the microwave. Filling the water tank after washing the coffee basket is a five minutes process, and the boiling water is just starting to fall noisily into the carafe when two small arms slide around his waist from behind.
He yelps.
"Sorry," mutters Lisbon. "Tea?"
"Yeah," he answers, trying to calm his heartbeat. "Didn't hear you come down. You, uh – you're awake?"
"Hm."
That's probably meant to be a 'yes'.
He turns around, holding her body away from his. Her pupils are so dilated he can barely make out the green around them – and she looks frustrated, eyes half-closed, as if aware her mind isn't working as it should but unable to do anything about it.
"Top drawer – no, shelf. Top shelf. Up – upstairs. Upstairs," she says, licking her lips.
What is she trying to say?
Then he realises she must be dreaming – and sleepwalking, by the looks of it. Stress-induced, supplies his mind. Or perhaps this is a normal – though freaky – side-effect of the drugs she was given.
That would point to some sort of sedative-hypnotic medication like – like Ambien or Klonopin or Ativan or –
"The," she adds. "The – the cupboard. Upstairs."
"In your room?"
"Yeah – that. Tea. My room. Top shelf."
He grins.
"You keep tea in your bedroom?"
She glares – or at least he thinks she's trying to glare. The wide blown pupils and half-shut eyelids look a lot more sultry than it should.
"Earl – sumthin'. Yes. Not that," she says, brushing the chamomile tea box aside.
It falls on the floor. Neither bother with picking it up.
"New box for – work," she adds. "Go."
She sounds and looks a lot more coherent than a sleepwalking person should – perhaps she really is awake, though still high as a kite. There's something endearing and more than a little funny about Lisbon rising to the sound of her coffee machine being mishandled.
One swift glance around to make sure she'll be safe to leave alone, then he climbs upstairs to find the tea. Two new boxes of Earl Grey are sitting on the top shelf, just like she said, along with a small origami frog – one he recognises with a jolt – and a picture of the team taken at the last Christmas party. He nearly stays around to snoop some more, but a loud crash downstairs quickly puts an end to that idea.
His hand isn't burning. Everything is fine.
"Lisbon? You okay?" he asks, walking into her tiny kitchen area.
"Helicopter's comin'," she answers drowsily. "Gotta use mustard."
He blinks. There's a cooking pot rolling back and forth on the floor, three feet away from the fridge she's half-buried in, presumably retrieving mustard. Chances are it fell when she picked up the pan currently sitting on the stove. On the tabletop near the sink there's already bread, cheese and eggs, ketchup, butter, and also chocolate sauce for some reason.
His stomach hurts just looking at it.
She seems to be making herself some sort of sandwich. Her movements are unnecessarily wide and uncoordinated, but she hasn't stabbed herself yet, and most of the butter is on the bread. Just a small greasy smudge on her wrist. Nothing that shouldn't wash out.
"Want help with that?" he asks, picking up a mug from her cupboard.
"No. Coffee?"
"No, you need to sleep. But I can make you tea."
She groans unhappily, and puts cheese on her bread. Then more cheese. And still more.
"Want some bread with that cheese?" he asks, chuckling.
"Dun' be silly," she answers, slapping the second slice on top of her cheese monstrosity.
Then she turns to the stove, hand fumbling around the control panel, and he suddenly has a very bad feeling about this.
"Uh, how about I cook, huh?" he says, taking a hesitant step toward her.
"No no no, not the chives. Try the – the metallic garblindsoder tessond merlnd – "
What?
He can't help the laugh – the strange, disconnected laugh – bubbling up his throat. Even if the situation isn't really funny, isn't funny at all in fact, the sight and sounds of Lisbon tripping – or sleepwalking, he still isn't sure – coupled to heaps of stress coming down is just too much. She turns around at the noise, looks at him impassively for a moment while he tries to keep the hilarity in check – ends up in stitches instead – and giggles.
Actually giggles.
And that would be adorable if she wasn't holding mustard in one hand, and what looks like a small cleaver in the other.
The sight sobers him faster than a cold shower.
"O-kay," he says, carefully peeling her fingers off the sharp blade. "How about we set you on the couch while I cook, huh? What was it supposed to be, a grilled cheese? You certainly had the cheese part down."
"Gricheezz'?" she mumbles. "No. Facktom eyezandround. With – eggs. Want some?"
"Eggs sound good. I'll make them, okay? I'm particular about my eggs."
He smiles, feeling a little strained. Hides the knife in a drawer while she puts the mustard in the dishwasher – and with a forlorn look to the coffee machine happily burping its hot water, leaves his mug and tea bag in the sink. Those small comforts will have to wait until he cuts off her access to sharp objects.
"Come. You need to lie down."
"No – don't want to. Gimmy the cheetah."
"The what?"
"The cheetah! Gimmy the chaerrowintondabliog – "
The end of her sentence is lost in an undistinguishable garble, but her finger is pointing very determinedly at the chocolate sauce. He rolls his eyes, picks up the bottle and puts his arm around her shoulders, steering her away from the kitchen.
"Alright, that's enough. Come on. You'll have your chocolate sauce as soon as you're lying down. Although why you'd want some to begin with is beside me, but if you want to drink it right out of the bottle, be my guest."
She giggles again, leaning heavily against his side – and he'll never be able to bring her up the stairs by himself, so he steers her toward the living room. She sighs when he drops her on the couch, and lets her head fall against the armrest. When he crouches near her, she looks up with a happy expression, all thoughts of chocolate sauce forgotten.
"I'm never letting you forget that, you know," he grins. "Not that I think you'll remember it in the first place."
"Nota remembi wa?"
He gives her head a little pat, then gets back up.
"I'll be right back," he whispers as she closes her eyes again.
Hopefully she'll fall asleep before he comes back.
He allows his gaze to wander a little. The unpacked boxes against the wall, in a corner of the room – did she lack time or inclination? The picture of her brothers on the desk – interesting that she would choose one where they still are teenagers, instead of a more recent one. The Spices Girls CD hidden amidst jazz bands – he's ready to bet sometimes she dances to that one, perhaps as she does household chores.
The eggs she took out earlier are still on the countertop.
One glance back at her – she's sleeping, knees drawn to her chest, one hand under her chin – and he decides not to bother with cooking. She needs to sleep the sedation off, and he isn't hungry. Besides, the lingering smell of eggs would probably make her nauseous in the morning.
He still has no idea who drugged her, nor why, never mind what their end game might be.
A quick trip around the place to close all blinds and make sure all doors are locked, a few more minutes to put the kitchen back in order – where did she put the mustard again? – and he comes back to her side, a steaming mug of Earl Grey in one hand, the other resting on the gun at his hip.
He rubs his face tiredly, then sits.
It's going to be a long night.
She wakes up at the crack of dawn, disoriented and confused, barely remembering the difference between dreams and reality. The mattress under her body is strangely lumpy, very unlike her own bed – and while the pillow is comfortable, its soft fabric scratches slightly at her cheek.
Velvet, she thinks.
Who uses velvet pillows, anyway?
The lighting is all wrong – the window should be on the other side. And when she opens her blurry eyes, blinking twice to bring back a little moisture on their dry surface, the first thing she sees is the gun – her glock! – lying across grey cotton-clad thighs, and the man's hand loosely sprawled over it.
She gulps.
The click of her dehydrated throat attracts the man's attention. She can see him shifting left and right, stretching his arms over his head, scratching his hair and nape a few seconds, as if his intrusion in her home was normal. And the only thing running through her head is, I don't think I can get a jump on him in time.
"Hey," he says, and she nearly sobs aloud when she recognises Jane's voice.
"Oh God, you scared me."
"Sorry, didn't mean to. You okay?"
"Hm. M'fine."
She scrunches her eyes shut again, hides her face in the pillow – cushion, supplies her mind. The couch's cushion. She's on the couch.
What the hell?
Nausea hits her stomach hard as she tries to get herself in an upright position. She stops moving, out of breath, hands clasps in fists on her slightly parted knees, just about ready to throw up. She can hear Jane moving about, but the mere act of thinking makes her woozy – so she stops and concentrates on getting air in, then out, then in again without bile climbing up her oesophagus.
"Here," he says, putting three small tablets and a glass of water under her nose. "Take this. You'll feel better."
"Not sure. Gonna be sick."
"Deep breaths. It'll pass."
She glares – as if she didn't know that already.
"Did – did we drink?" she asks, once the wave of nausea abates. "I can't – "
I can't remember anything.
"Drink? No."
Jane sits back in the small sofa facing her, eyes roaming over her with concern. She takes her medicine, then squints in his general direction, trying to see him more clearly.
"Why am I hungover?"
"You were drugged."
"We – we did drugs?!"
The squinting turns into a frown. Jane's chuckle is humourless.
"No. Someone slipped you drugs – probably in your food or drink. You didn't take them on your own."
That makes more sense.
Not much, though.
"Who?"
She swallows, pushing down a new wave of sickness.
"Why?"
"I – I don't know," he answers, gaze avoiding hers.
She pauses. Looks up at him, taking in his evasive expression, the remnants of anxiety, and the overly tousled hair from a night spent running his fingers through it. Tries to hang on to annoyance – her morning usual. Tries to push away the confusion and fear.
"You're lying."
"I'm not lying."
"Yes. You are."
How do I know that?
She gets up slowly, every movement clumsy and awkward, as if swimming in molasses – as if dreaming. He follows her to the kitchen, nearly hovering, and it reminds her uncomfortably of his attitude immediately following Tanner's shooting.
"You are lying. You've got that – that shifty look in your eyes again. There's something you're not telling me."
"Shifty look? Really, Lisbon? You're calling me shifty? You could use stealthy, at least. Or – or surreptitious. Oh! Oh, what about furtive? I like furtive."
He grins, outwardly amused – but his smile isn't as bright as it usually is. Obviously he's playing for time, trying to distract her. Whatever it is he's holding back, he doesn't want to share.
Too bad.
"Jane."
"Hm?"
"Why have I been drugged?"
The smile melts away.
"I told you, I don't know."
"Who drugged me?"
He hesitates.
"You have an idea," she presses. "Who is it?"
He pinches his lips together, bites the inside of his cheek.
"It's just a theory. No proof either way, and even if I'm right, there's no motive that makes sense."
She looks down – he's playing with his wedding ring, turning it over and over on his finger.
"Red John?" she asks, bracing herself for the answer.
"No. Don't think so. Not his M.O., no reason to come after you. Didn't show up here. I don't feel it."
She stares at him, trying to gauge his honesty. But he shrugs, hands open wide, holding her eyes this time, and she decides to believe him – on that point, at least.
It's too early for chronic suspicion anyway, and her head hurts.
"Who then?"
"Can we talk about this later? I'd say we both need more caffeine before we have this discussion. And breakfast, if you can have it. I'm starving."
She nods, rubbing her eyes with one hand, refilling her glass at the sink with the other. The water helps clear her mind, at least a little. Enough to make her crave coffee and breakfast. Not enough to dispel the pervasive feeling of treading in a dream.
Just enough to bring up questions she didn't yet think to ask.
She glances at him, takes a step aside. He's standing just a bit too close for comfort.
"How did you get here?"
"I – used my car? What kind of question is that?"
She rolls her eyes.
"No, I mean – what are you doing here? In my place? Wait, this is my place, right?"
"Of course it is."
"Well?"
He frowns, then looks away – on any other person, she'd call the expression on his face sheepish.
"Someone had to watch over you. Just, uh – you know. Just in case something turned – bad."
"How did you know something was wrong in the first place? Did you drive me back from the office?"
"Ah, no. My ha – I, uh – you called me."
She raises an eyebrow, but his features are blank, expressionless.
" 'My-haiyuh-you called me'. Really, Jane? You usually have a better control of your mouth. What's going on?"
"Listen, we talked on the phone. You sounded funny, I got worried, came here. That's it."
He shrugs again, then a glint of mischievousness starts glowing in his eyes.
"Come on Lisbon, don't be so crabby. Just because I know your deep, dark secret now – "
She stares, a twinge of unease spreading fast through her mind.
"What are you talking about? What secret?"
"You sleepwalk when you're high," he grins. "Didn't you know that?"
"What? I do not!"
"You ever been high before?"
"No!"
"Then how would you know?"
"I just know, okay? I don't sleepwalk!"
"Oh yeah, you do. All the way down the stairs, and to the kitchen. You said something about – helicopters I think? Then you made yourself a sandwich. It's in the fridge."
Sure enough, when she opens the door, there's a plate wrapped in plastic with an unreasonable amount of cheese between two slices of bread. She stares, then breaks into a reluctant, terrified smile.
"You're pulling my leg, right? You made that – that thing to prank me. Admit it!"
"No, I swear," he chuckles. "You did it all on your own."
"I don't – I don't remember any of that."
"Probably a side-effect of the drugs."
But she can't even remember taking drugs. And her memories of the day before are so blurry and confused, her head hurts just trying to make sense of all those disconnected pictures and sounds. She tries nonetheless – closes her eyes, then opens them again, all the while her breaths becoming shallower, making her light-headed.
Two fingers touch her elbow, grounding her in reality. For an horrible second, she thinks she's going to cry – then she bites down on her lip hard, and the moment passes. When she looks up, Jane is frowning slightly – again just a tad too close, crowding her, though she isn't even sure he moved.
She shakes her head, takes a step back.
"How come I was lucid enough to do all that, if I can't remember?"
"Well, I wouldn't call you lucid, really. You were out like a light when I arrived."
His throat bobs up and down, something like fear flashing over his features just a fraction of a second – she only recognises it because the same emotion is still building up like a wave inside her.
"You, uh – you got up later, while I was making myself some tea. Sleepwalking, as I said. Or at least drugged out of your mind, not sure which."
"What else did I do?"
He smiles then – a warm, genuine, affectionate thing – and she stays unmoving, nonplussed, as he pulls out two mugs from the cupboard. He starts filling the water compartment of her coffee machine as he talks, way too comfortable and at home in her kitchen.
"You told me where you kept good tea – you were very grumpy about it, too. I'm gonna make some, do you want a cup?"
"Uh, no thanks."
There's something there she should feel embarrassed about, she knows. It's here, right in the teasing lilt of his voice. She can't quite grasp it, but if she could just perhaps think –
"When I came back, you were making that cheese monstrosity," he says, and she's forced to pay attention again. "Then you tried to cook eggs by yourself, and you were starting to wave that big knife around so I brought you to the couch."
She frowns.
"That's it?"
"Uh, no. You asked for chocolate sauce at one point. Called it 'cheetah'," he grins.
"Cheetah?"
"That's when I figured you were really out of it."
"No kidding."
She isn't quite sure if she should be laughing, crying, or getting annoyed with herself – or him. Or whomever slipped her drugs. Or all of those options at once. Her emotions are fleeting, unanchored to reality, and her mind in disarray is still filled with disbelief – everything seems so odd since she woke up.
Not real.
Not happening to her.
"Where do you keep your coffee?" asks Jane, dunking a teabag in a mug of boiling water.
"Uh, second to last shelf in the pantry."
"If I cook some eggs, is it going to make you gag?"
She offers a slight shrug.
"Right now it's just making me hungry."
Her stomach is grumbling already. How long since she last ate?
"Good," he smiles. "Why don't you sit in the living room while I make breakfast? I'll bring you coffee."
"I need a shower," she mutters, rubbing her eyes again. "Mind if I do?"
He makes a tiny sound of surprise – what for, she has no idea – then nods, smile just a tad wider, eyes just a tad brighter than usual.
"Sure. Go ahead."
The trip upstairs takes longer than it should, but at least she manages to stay upright. There's a definite lack of energy as she turns the tap, checks the water temperature, and gets in the tub – every step is an effort, and she has to keep a hand on the wall to prevent a dizzy spell from toppling her over. But the warm water is nothing less than divine, and she stays a long time under the stream as it washes away the remnants of fog in her brain.
Then she finally steps out of this strange dream-like sensation, only to realises Jane is in her place while she's taking a shower.
"Everything okay?" he asks, his voice muted by the door between them. "I heard a scream!"
"I'm fine!" she screeches, frantically turning the knobs to cut off water. "Go away!"
"Alright then. Breakfast will be ready in a few!"
She can hear his chuckles receding down the stairs – and she can't remember ever being so mortified in her life. At least she thought to pick up clothes before stepping into the shower.
"Dear God. What the hell came over you?" she mutters to herself, trying to rub the water out of her hair.
If she ever had any doubt that Jane was lying about someone drugging her, she doesn't anymore. No way would she ever act like this – leaving Jane alone in her home, and especially leaving Jane alone to take a shower – if her judgement wasn't impaired.
"Seriously impaired. Of all the stupid things to do!"
No time to straighten her locks with the hair dryer – as soon as she finds an elastic, she runs down the stairs, ponytail dripping all over her neck. She comes to an abrupt stop when Jane, waiting beside the kitchen entrance, holds a mug of coffee to her face.
"I see you're back to yourself," he says, grinning like the cat who put paws and teeth all over the Thanksgiving turkey.
She grumbles under her breath, but takes the mug – no reason to waste perfectly good coffee, even if she wavers between wishing the ground would swallow her alive, and booting the man out of her place as quickly as possible.
"I made breakfast. Come and sit?"
"No! You can't – "
The wonderful smell of food slithers under her nose. Her stomach groans again.
Very loudly.
" – I mean – oh, fine."
"Excellent! Glad to see you still have your priorities straight."
She glares. He makes a zipper motion over his mouth, then shepherds her toward the kitchen table. The sight of two plates with eggs, bacon and toasts – and nothing else – on the table nearly stuns her into silence.
"Wasn't there – ? Uh, where did you put my – "
"Paperwork? In the living room."
She frowns.
"And where did you find the – "
"Bacon? In your freezer."
Her frown deepens.
"Under the ice sheet," he adds. "Two packs left. Date isn't even last year, it should be fine."
Though she ends up voicing neither, 'Who gave you the right to go through my freezer?' battles closely inside with 'What ice sheet? Are you sure you didn't just go out and buy some?', keeping her frowning a few seconds more.
"Stop trying to mess with my mind," she goes for instead.
"What do you mean?"
His teasing tone makes it perfectly obvious he knows she's onto him.
"You keep interrupting me. I know you're doing it on purpose, you always use that trick to confuse suspects. Stop it."
"But if I do, you'll find a reason to yell at me."
"Perhaps I do have a reason to yell at you."
"Yes, you do – you're feeling helpless, and you hate it. Yelling at me wouldn't accomplish much, but at least you'd feel better."
"Of course," she says, rolling her eyes. "That's the only possible reason I could have to yell at you."
"It is, most of the time," he grins. "But if I let you, by the time you're done breakfast will be cold. Don't let your grumpiness get in the way of good eggs, Lisbon. Shall we?"
She sighs, and sits. As much as she wants to argue – for the sake of arguing, perhaps – she'll concede that round.
He's right about one thing, at least. The eggs are good.
Bacon's not bad either. Huh.
"So – are you gonna tell me what's going on?" she asks, once the last bite swallowed.
"How about I do the dishes, and – "
"No."
Hand falling flat on the table, she stops him from escaping again.
"That's enough deflecting, Jane. This is my life. I'm the one that's been drugged, and you're damn well going to tell me everything you know about this. Now."
Holding her gaze, he slowly puts their plates back on the table.
"Alright. Living room?"
"This better not be another distraction."
She picks up the plates, drops them in the sink – when she turns back to him, he hands her a second mug of coffee. She takes it with a grateful nod, then pulls him back to the couch in her living room, plops down, and glares until he sits in the sofa facing her.
It's still early – seven at most. They'll have some time to talk before Minelli expects them in.
Good.
They stay silent a few seconds – and she suddenly notices they're in the exact same position they started when she woke up, with the addition of a soft morning sun shining through the window. Which reminds her of something else.
"Wait. Before you start, where did you put my gun?"
He parts one side of his jacket. There it is, tied to his hip. When she makes a hooking gesture – gimmy! – he unclasps it without a word. The heavy weight of steel immediately makes her feel better. She takes a deep breath, savours the relief half a second, then turns her attention to him again.
"I spent all night thinking about this," Jane says, looking down. "And – this is embarrassing, but – "
He hesitates, avoid her eyes. His right thumb scratches the side of his left hand, a very nervous, very uncharacteristic gesture.
" – but the truth is, I have no idea why this was done to you. Nothing I come up with makes any sense. You weren't robbed. You weren't assaulted. Nobody tried to sneak in last night, and nothing was disturbed inside when I came in. Except for – well, you."
"Maybe they saw your car and got scared?"
He shakes his head.
"No. I parked two blocks away, on another street. The only theory I can come up with is that someone wanted to make really sure you stayed at home last night – but it seems like an awful lot of trouble to get such a simple result."
"I usually stay at home on week nights anyway," she frowns. "Did we miss a case?"
"I – I don't know. My phone was closed."
"Where's mine?"
"Upstairs. It didn't ring."
"Was it plugged?"
He shakes his head. Rolling her eyes, she climbs upstairs to fetch it, then comes back with both phone and charger.
"No call missed," she reads aloud, after plugging it in the nearest outlet. "Maybe they did see your car and got spooked."
"Maybe."
He doesn't look convinced. She doesn't blame him – she's not convinced either.
"Who did this?" she asks, sitting back in the couch. "Who slipped me drugs?"
"You don't remember?"
"I can't remember anything."
It's surprising how calm and levelled her voice sounds – she feels so unsteady inside.
"Did, uh – did someone ambush me on my way home?"
Jane bites the inside of his cheek, and perches himself on the edge of his seat. She has to stop herself from drawing her knees to her chest.
"No. I think the drugs came from someone inside the CBI."
She blinks, unable to react, unable say a word – as if an earthquake cracked all roads between her brain and her mouth.
"Someone inside the CBI?" she utters after a moment of terrible silence, trying to keep herself together. "You mean – someone who works there?"
He nods.
"It probably took you about half an hour to get home – and you were here when we talked yesterday, I'm sure of it. You didn't have time to stop, so my guess is someone slipped drugs in something they gave you, food or drink, doesn't matter. Something they knew you would take, no questions asked. Something like – "
Their eyes both fall on the steaming mug in her hand.
" – coffee," they say at the same time.
"That would make sense," he adds. "You drink so much of it."
She places the cup on the side table.
"Hey. That one's safe, I promise."
"I know. Still."
They stay silent a few seconds.
"What's the last thing you remember from yesterday?" he asks.
"I don't – "
"Quick, don't think. First thing that comes to mind."
"Desecrating a body to get a confession."
He raises his eyebrows.
"No, wait – I'd never use that expression. Someone told me I did that. Minelli?"
"Uh, no. I was there – Minelli said 'abused', not 'desecrated'."
She frowns, turning the words in her mind, again and again without coming closer to an answer. Jane reclines in his seat, watching her carefully.
"Who would say something like that?" she mutters. "Did I hear people gossiping again?"
Then she opens her eyes wide.
"Wait a minute. Gossiping – that's right! Bosco told me that. We had this huge f – uh, yeah. Early afternoon I think."
"That's the last thing you remember? Fighting with Bosco?"
"You know about the fight?"
"Everybody knows about the fight," he answers, eyes shifting to the side. "No memory after that?"
"I don't think so. But Bosco wouldn't drug me," she laughs.
"How can you be so sure?"
She stares – Jane stares back, neither expression nor body language betraying his thoughts.
"You don't seriously think Bosco would slip me drugs? That's – no. No way."
"No?"
"No," she says firmly. "We've known each other a long time. He's an ass sometimes, but he'd never harm me. It has to be someone else."
He nods.
"Alright. To be fair, Bosco probably didn't do it. But you two did have a fight. Until you remember or we find proof, everyone's a suspect."
"But some more than others, right? You said you had a theory earlier – told me to wait. Well I waited, and it's after breakfast now. Shoot."
The gaze he levels on her is uncharacteristically serious. Still, he doesn't say a word.
"Tell me!"
"Your shrink."
She snorts.
"Jane, come on. Isn't that pushing your fear of doctors a bit far?"
"I'm not afraid of doctors. And I'm perfectly serious."
"Dr. Carmen is a licensed psychiatrist who's been employed by the CBI for at least three years."
"He's also a quack with access to prescription drugs."
"If he was in the habit of slipping drugs to his patients, don't you think someone would have noticed by now?"
"Not if it's the first time he's doing it."
"I've lost count of the number of times I had to see him already! Why didn't he drug me when I shot Dan Hollenbeck, or – or that wacky soulmate couple in Napa last year? Why would he drug me now?"
"Well, that's the question, isn't it? Come on, Lisbon, think. Even without taking into account how he made you come back week after week with feeble excuses not to sign off on you – how many times did you come back from his office feeling terrible? The headaches, the nausea, the sleepiness you can't shake off, no matter how much coffee you drink that day? Didn't you feeling unwell start right after Tanner, and didn't you feel better when you went to Chicago, only to relapse once you came back?"
She hates how reasonable it sounds, because the idea of a respectable psychiatrist passing the screening to work in law enforcement, then spending three years doing some good work just to end up slipping drugs in her coffee shouldn't make sense, no matter how one looks at it. But there's nothing in Jane's rhetoric she can easily discount – so she rubs her knuckles against her forehead for a moment, then looks at him again, feeling stricken.
"But why would he do that to me?"
"I don't know."
"Jane, are you sure about this? I didn't even see him yesterday. Couldn't it be someone else?"
"It could be someone else. Are you sure you didn't see him?"
"I have an appointment with him, uh – Friday I think? Later in the week, anyway. I definitely didn't have one yesterday."
"Hmm."
He lightly chews on his bottom lip, and she finds herself unconsciously mimicking him.
"We'll have to wait until you remember to be sure."
"Can I remember? I mean – is it possible?"
"Hard to say – depends on what he gave you. You could remember on your own, or the memory could be lost forever, or – "
He hesitates.
"Or what?"
"Or I could hypnotise you to help you remember – if the memory's there, we can get it back. I could put you into a light trance – "
"No. No way," she says, jumping out of her seat.
"Lisbon, listen to me. I'm not gonna hurt you. You just need to relax."
"Like that's going to happen! Stop trying to hypnotise me."
"There's nothing to be afraid of."
"I'm not afraid!"
"Then let me hypnotise you so we know for sure who did this to you."
"No," she says, turning away – and biting her lip again as soon as he doesn't see her face anymore.
"Why not?"
"Because I don't want you inside my head."
You're there enough already.
In another setting, she would walk away as fast as possible – but escaping him in her own apartment is a bit tricky. Showing him out would be an easy solution, but it seems pointless when he'll just wait to hound her at work in – she checks her watch – less than an hour anyway.
So she turns her back on him, and walks to the kitchen with the intention of cleaning up. Their plates and cutlery are still piled up in the sink, along with the skillet he used to fry their eggs and bacon. Perfect. She won't have to find another activity to settle her nerves – and cleaning is a little less obvious than straightening.
She absorbs herself in the practised motion of washing, scrubbing, rinsing one plate after the other, then the skillet, then the cutlery – and she's drying the last fork, taking as much time as humanly possible, when she suddenly remembers about her dishwasher.
More specifically, the whole dishwasher worth of dirty plates she can wash by hand to delay confrontation with Jane.
Don't be stupid.
Alright, maybe not. It's getting late anyway, they'll have to hit the road soon. But if she could just –
"Hey," he says, right behind her. "What are you planning to do about this, then?"
She jumps, then takes a deep breath.
"What do you mean?"
"You can't investigate anyone. You don't have proof."
She chews on the inside of her cheek.
He's right. Damnit.
"I could find proof. There must be something – there's always something to find."
"You could. How do you expect to go about it?"
She hums while washing the sink, then her hands – keeping busy while she thinks about it. No judge will sign a warrant to search Carmen's office – or anyone's office – without due cause. Suspicion isn't enough. Maybe if she tried to act normal around him, make him talk. Or maybe it isn't him at all. Maybe it's someone else, someone with ties to Red John. Someone they can trick into a confession. Maybe –
Isn't that a very Jane way to go about this?
"What about a tox screen?" he asks, hip leaning on the countertop.
She raises her eyebrows. Did they switch their minds last night without her noticing?
"It could be a long shot," he adds. "Most prescription drugs are metabolised in 12 to 18 hours, so a blood test may not reveal anything."
"You said whoever did this has been drugging me for a long time, right?"
"At least a month. Probably more."
"Then it doesn't have to be blood, they could test my hair. Most prescriptions drugs – all drugs, and steroids too for that matter – can be traced that way for up to 90 days, especially with long-term use. That's why so many addicts shave their head. If I request them to send the samples to a testing facility the CBI uses, then perhaps – hmm. I was scheduled for some tests soon anyway, I could – let me just – where's my bag?"
"Must have left it in your car yesterday. Anyway, Lisbon – "
He taps his thumb against his bottom lip, a pensive gesture she's getting very familiar with.
"How long until you get your tox screen results back, about two weeks? We should probably keep quiet about this, at least until then."
No matter the fact it echoes her own thoughts, she crosses her arms on her chest, waiting to be convinced. Because this is how it works between them, and she desperately needs this small amount of control. This small amount of normal.
"And why would I do that?"
Jane flashes her a knowing smile, then becomes serious again.
"Because we still don't know why you were drugged."
"And how not coming clean about it will get us answers?"
"If I hadn't been here last night, what would you have done? Concealed it, right? You thought we were drinking when you woke up."
She winces, then nods.
"You had a sleepwalking episode, so you would have found displaced objects, unexplainable traces of activity downstairs. With your history, the logical assumption – "
"You mean he wanted me to think I had a black-out?" she interrupts, nauseous. "That's – that's sick."
"Well, we don't know his endgame. But – yes. Probably. It's interesting, isn't it?"
Interesting?
She debates for a moment the wisdom of asking what exactly in this situation deserves to be called interesting. Is it puzzling out why someone – her therapist, whispers her mind – decided to trap her in her worst nightmare, or the fact that this person knew her well enough to engineer it in the first place? But then he glances her way, and probably catches the dismay in her expression because he steps closer, a faint trace of apology on his face.
"Oh, Lisbon. Hey," he says, touching two fingers to her shoulder. "It's going to be okay. It's going to be fine, alright? I promise."
Only then does she realises her eyes are full of unshed tears – which she wipes quickly, embarrassment battling with anger inside her. But anger is good. Anger is safe – perfect to drown all those other conflicted feelings.
"Whoever did this, I want them nailed," she says, voice cracking.
"He will be. For now we lie low. Then we'll catch him red-handed, and I'll trick him into a full confession. Alright?"
"I want to nail the bastard. Not you. Me."
"You will."
"You'll show me? How to trick him?"
"As soon as we know what he's up to."
"Okay," she says, sniffling.
"Okay," he echoes, his hand running up and down on her arm twice before letting go.
She should probably thank him for being there all night, and for figuring out what happened to her – she can't imagine waking up on her own, mind and mouth fuzzy, with no memory of the night before. But there's been enough display of emotion this morning. If she adds gratitude to that plate, it'll become platitude and she'll turn into mush.
It'll still be time to thank him later, when Carmen – when the person responsible is behind bars.
"You should leave," she says. "So we don't show up at work together."
"Hmm. Yes. The rumour mill doesn't need more water, does it?"
"Ha-ha. Get out of here."
"Yes ma'am," he grins. "How soon will you follow?"
"I'll stop at the lab first, ask Pat for a tox screen. She'll know to keep it quiet until we come up with something."
He nods.
"Don't forget to act normal around your shrink next time you see him."
"I know, Jane. Stop hovering."
He chuckles, then walks to the door.
"See you later, Lisbon. Don't forget to start the washing cycle for those remaining dishes."
What?
He waits a few seconds on the doorstep, rocking on his feet – looking way too pleased with himself. Frowning, she grabs the handle and pulls. Then stares.
"Why is there mustard in my dishwasher?"
The noise Jane makes as he closes the door sounds very much like a laugh.
Next chapter officially starts the Red Badge interlude, and will come when it's ready.
I know updates are infrequent. But English is not my first language, and all of my chapters are between 9 and 15k words. I won't bore you with my writing process and the number of editing rounds a chapter goes through before publication – just know that I care about the quality of my stories, and getting there takes time.
So please don't send me anonymous (or signed!) reviews asking me to update quickly. It won't make me write faster – it'll just make me stressed. And stress gives me writer's block, so I'm sure you can see how that's a bad idea.
Thank you for your respect and understanding. See you on the next one.