Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is Bruno Heller's.

A/N: The good thing with NaNoWriMo is that, whether you manage to write your daily wordcount or not, the very fact that you have to sit down and write every day forces the brain to come up with self-hacks to keep itself creative. Hence the first time I managed to sleep more than 4 hours at night since the start of the event, I was graced with a new plot bunny upon waking up.
This is also how last year I got the idea for this very story, by the way. So maybe I'll be writing that one next year. Who knows? (Not quite sure I'm happy about it, to be honest. My bunny folders are getting quite full.)
Anyway! Enough blabbing around, hope you enjoy the chapter. :-)

Hour 7: Jane
Armour

This is going nowhere.

Raking his fingers through his hair, his aggravated sigh quickly turning into a yarn, he tries to concentrate again on the dreadfully dull forum conversation – but no such luck. Reading on the properties of pig blood versus chicken blood is so far from his notion of "fun" – never mind "helpful" – that he cannot seem to remember more than a few lines at a time, forcing him to scroll up and read the debate again just to make sense of it. The whole process is painful and tedious, and who knows what Lisbon is going through while he's stuck reading the terrible prose of teenage outcasts with a God complex?

"Almost done?" asks Wylie beside him.

"Uh – about thirty left, I think," he answers. "Nothing suspicious, unless you want to investigate blood bank trafficking."

"What do you mean?"

"Uh, there's someone here who buys expired blood units from a blood bank, it seems."

Wylie frowns.

"That's illegal. We should report it."

"Do you really want to lose time on that now?"

"Uh – no, you're right. I'll just take note of the URL and maybe a few more, uh, let me see – "

The analyst takes the laptop from his hands and balances it on his knees, already engrossed in the very discussion he's eager to get away from. He shrugs.

"Suit yourself. I'll go make more coffee, do you want a cup?"

"Sure, sure," says Wylie, obviously not listening.

He grins briefly.

Let the kid have his win – fighting crime will cheer him up, make him more efficient.

A fourth – or is it fifth already, he's losing count – coffee round later, he finds himself in the kitchen again, waiting for the water to boil. He isn't sure yet what he wants to drink – it'll be his sixth cup since Lisbon was abducted, and his stomach is starting to protest. He could probably drink ginger and honey tea, but tiredness is making his whole body heavy and a new influx of caffeine wouldn't go amiss. Opening the cupboard, he stays motionless, staring at the colourful cardboard and tin boxes, until his eyes come to a stop on the wulong tea Lisbon gave him.

Then he realises he's been playing with his wedding ring again.

With shaking hands, he pushes his teacup further back on the countertop – no need to risk breaking it on top of everything else – then clenches his right hand over the left, feeling the thin metal band rolling under his fingers. The kettle sings, letting off steam, but he ignores it until it stops on its own. Tea lost its appeal already.

It's just that I'm used to it, that's all.

But the way her face fell when he said it is still burning in his mind, and broke his heart a second time when she later felt the need to apologise for bringing it up.

He turns the small golden band again and again on his finger, feeling the slight indentations and rough patches from use, from ten years of being reckless in a dangerous job – and two more trailing it on sand and rock formations, of letting it soak in the salted water of the ocean. It shines softly under the artificial lighting, gilded glint losing itself in the shadow of his palm, and he wonders just how naked he would feel without it.

And he pulls it up slightly, just a quarter of an inch, just to get a feel for its absence – but something tightens inside, makes him feel vulnerable, and he stops before it even comes close to his knuckle.

"You should pull it off in one go, like a band-aid," says Abbott behind him – startling him so bad he hits his elbow against the countertop.

"Dammit! Say something next time, Dennis!"

Abbott chuckles.

"Sorry about that. You okay?"

"I'm fine," he answers grumpily.

"Why are you still wearing that thing anyway, Jane?"

He frowns, and instead of an answer, puts the kettle on again. Maybe tea would be a good idea, after all. Maybe he'll even drink Lisbon's wulong, and soak himself in memories of her kisses as he enjoy the clean, light, sweet after-taste of the brew.

"I'm sorry – it's not my business."

Abbott clasps his shoulder, patting it twice before leaving him alone in the kitchen. That same gesture again, he thinks. Gratefulness, comfort, and now apology. He takes the tin can from the cupboard, drops a tea bag in his cup, and does his best to ignore the tightening of his throat as he pours the boiling water over the leaves. His ring catches the light again, brings itself to the forefront of his mind even as he tries to forget about it – and it's been his security blanket for so long, how is he supposed to just get rid of it when his girlfriend, the most important person in his world, was abducted by a serial killer? How is he supposed to hold on with the closest thing he has to a piece of armour removed?

I don't want to be wearing it when she comes home.

He swallows the lump in his throat – and as the tea steeps slowly, large leaves unfolding in the water, he pulls on his wedding band again. Just slightly, just an inch, just enough to pass the first knuckle. A slight draft of fresh air cools the uncovered skin, making him even more aware of the importance of the gesture – and Abbott is right, if he doesn't remove it in one go, he'll still be at it by the end of the day.

So closes his eyes and pulls it off.

Just like a band-aid.

Deliberately avoiding the thought of his naked finger, he removes the tea bag from his cup, then brings the hot beverage to his nose. The sweet, floral and slightly milky scent calms his fast breathing, gives him something to hold on – even metaphorically – until the anxiety passes. Reminds him that, wherever Lisbon is, she has it harder than he does right now. And if he can do this small, so very small thing for her right now, maybe he has a right to hope she won't pay the ultimate price for his own stupidity, and maybe he even has a right to hope she'll come home to see his unadorned left hand.

He slips the ring in the inside pocket of his jacket, takes a careful sip of his tea, and walks back to the bullpen. There's still work to do, and even the mind-numbing process of reading over pseudo-religious drivel is better than staying alone in the kitchen, worrying about the very last morsel of grief he should have let the Venezuelan waves wash away years ago.

"Hey," says Wylie when he comes back. "Did you notice where those people buy their supplies?"

"Uh – when they don't buy from crooked blood banks employees, you mean? Mostly they get their blood from slain animals. Chickens, pigs, cows. Farmers sell it, as well as slaughterhouses."

"No, not the blood. I mean, their supplies – candles, books, things like that."

He shrugs.

"As far as I've seen, they use the internet a lot. Some of them visit a local book store called – "

" 'The Grimoire', right?" interrupts Wylie. "It comes up a lot in my research! What if the killer went there too? I checked it out, it's only three miles from where the bodies were buried."

It's thin. It's so, so thin – but it may be a lead, and as the footage picture didn't pan out, it's everything they have.

"You should tell Abbott."

The smile Wylie gives him is bright enough to shadow the sun. He nearly skips to the conference room, high on a rush of enthusiasm – but when he comes back five minutes later, he looks crushed.

"What's wrong?"

"Abbott said it's too thin, we don't have time to waste, and that the video footage is a better lead. The one we should be focussing on right now, he said."

"Well, I disagree," he says, frowning. "Wait here."

Abbott and Cho both look exhausted when he knocks at the door – but tiredness is not a reason to pass up leads, especially when they don't yet have anything solid to go on.

"Hey," he says. "Why aren't you following up on the book store?"

Cho rubs the bridge of his nose. Abbott sighs and pushes back his glasses.

"Didn't Wylie tell you what I said?"

"He did," he acknowledges. "But I really want to hear you tell me why you're ignoring a lead – any lead – when we don't have that many to begin with."

"Jane, it's too thin," says Cho. "Do you really believe a guy like the killer who took Lisbon would reveal his interest in human blood in a book store specialised in the occult? A place like that would have even more reasons to remember him, and I bet he'd know that."

"What if he didn't go for the blood, what if he went to ask about diamonds? The travelling gem show where he saw Lisbon isn't a book fair – it was a high end venue attended by professionals jewellers. Someone gave him the information, and before he thought of asking a jeweller, he must have asked around in occult stores."

"Alright, well in that case, why don't you and Wylie go check it out?" says Abbott.

He freezes.

Leaving headquarters is taking the risk not to be there when they find where Lazarus keeps Lisbon – and, judging by Abbott's pointed look, he knows that very well.

Is Wylie's lead important enough to risk it?

He bites his lip.

Yes, he decides. It is.

"Okay," he says. "Wylie and I will go."

Cho looks surprised but he nods and gets up, throws a set of keys in his direction.

"Take my car," he says. "It's safer than Wylie's weird little compact thing."

He blinks, then nods, touched. This is Cho's way of telling him they'll wait until he comes back if they can afford it.

"Keep your phone open," adds Abbott as he passes the threshold. "And touch base every half an hour, just in case. I don't want a repeat – we can't be sure Lisbon was the only target."

Wylie's expression moves from defeated to overjoyed before he even hear the news – probably reading it on his face, an impressive feat for someone working with him just a little over a year. As they walk to Cho's car, he realises maybe this is what he was looking for.

Maybe this is the answer – or at least part of the answer – to what he needs to do.

He knew it already when he left, and the little shack he found a few days ago only confirmed what he feels inside – what he's been feeling for a long time now. It's time to leave. But now that the woman he loves is in danger because of something he did again, the longing, the need to do something else with his life crystallised into an absolute certainty.

His days working with the FBI are over.

Whether Lisbon comes back or not – and she will come back, she will – this is his last case.

But as he listens to Wylie's directions and drives them to The Grimoire book store, he realises maybe he doesn't need to take everything with him when he leaves. Maybe Lisbon doesn't have to be the only cop left with parts of his skill set – if Cho didn't lie about that – and with a bit of luck, Wylie's out-of-the-box thinking could prove an asset if he helps hone his mind.

He never took an apprentice before.

This could be interesting.

Tomorrow's prompt: Test