A little Jisbon snuck in here. ;P Hope you enjoy it.

Chapter Twelve: Something like love


"No, Paddy," Genny sobbed. "Please don't leave me."

"I'm sorry." Jane hoped he didn't sound as weary as he felt. "He's gone."

A sobbing Genny ran past her son and disappeared from sight. Jane sighed. A week of this: pretending to be something he wasn't. Misleading this woman. Steve's cold eyes watched him from the doorway, like usual.

Almost two weeks in this dank basement. Jane wondered what the team was doing. If they had even made it through half of his client roster. Poor Van Pelt must be shattered...Jane only hoped that Rigsby was comforting her, that it made the two of them stronger. Something good should come from the bad.

Sadly, Jane knew that wasn't always the case. In fact, that was rare. Silver linings were harder to find than those dragons and wizards that had populated his daughter's storybooks.

Steve's voice drew him from his thoughts. "You know, it wasn't always like this. She wasn't always like this."

Lisbon remained silent, watchful. Jane met the man's gaze, keeping his expression open.

"Hell, even I wasn't always the way you see me." His laugh was bitter. "I can remember being a normal family. And even when Paddy died, we were sad, but grieving. Normal."

Steve pushed away from the wall, starting to pace. "Then she heard of you. The great Patrick Jane. Charming with soulful eyes. Psychic. Able to contact those who had passed."

Jane didn't respond. It didn't matter. Steve continued. He obviously needed to get it all out. "She became obsessed with getting Paddy back in some way. She would pay anything, give anything. And then you were gone. Out of the public's eye."

Jane watched as Steve slowed his pace when he passed in front of Lisbon. Though he wanted nothing more than to drag Lisbon away, keep her safe from Steve, he knew that they were stuck. So he just watched, trying not to exacerbate the problem.

"It was worse. It was way worse. She became someone else. I didn't recognize my own mother. Tried to kill herself, you know." Strange, the way that Steve's voice was so conversational. Only one of the clues that his mother wasn't the only one who changed.

Steve stopped, leaning once more against the wall, returning to watching them. "I've done everything I can to keep her happy. Keep her alive. That's why I had to take you. She was losing it, Mr. Jane."

"What would you do to keep the only one you have left alive?"

Finally, Jane spoke. In his mind, he saw the face of his child. Of his wife. "More than you know."

Jane didn't know how his words affected the man in front of him, but mere seconds later Steve was leaving. As the door clicked shut, he looked over to Lisbon. He was no longer surprised by how her soft smile kept him going. How her green eyes gave him that little bit of strength.

She spoke. "You're not like him. Not like Steve. Not like Red John."

Jane swallowed. He wondered if she was wearing down his defenses because he found himself wanting to believe those words. He went to the bed and sat beside her. The warm skin of her hand brushed his fingers, offering brief comfort before she pulled away. Reacting quickly, Jane grabbed her hand, winding his fingers through hers.

It was a weakness, but Jane knew better than anyone that he was a weak man. The feeling of her skin against his gave him strength.

If he wasn't careful, he'd get addicted.

They sat in silence again.

"I know you won't believe me, but it's not your fault. None of it."

And with those words, he knew he would never feel free. Because he would always feel at fault. Lisbon's hand moved within his...but maybe he would learn to live with that. After all, who didn't feel guilt?

Lisbon—the strongest person he knew—even felt it. Often felt it. He saw it in her whole demeanor.

Maybe he could follow her image.

The first step in dealing with it, living with it, would be to get out of this alive. To get Lisbon out. To find Red John. Find justice.

Then to figure out if he could remember what it felt like to live. To really live.

He had a inkling that it had something to do with the feeling of Lisbon's hand in his.

He could be wrong—it had been a very long time—but he thought it felt something like love.