In Nomine
Comments: Such a hard chapter to write! I've spent all afternoon going over it. It is what it is, and I hope it works for you. One to two more chapters at the very most. Even though this is likely a good place to stop it, but I have a few other things in store for them. A few suicidal mentions in here, just as a warning. As always thanks for the reviews.
Chapter 12-Of Spectrums and Ends
The worst part about traumatic encounters, Lisbon decided, was the department psychiatrist. Twice a week the woman descended on her apartment, trying to pull out her feelings, her insecurities, her vulnerabilities.
In some ways, Lisbon wished she could do what the woman wanted—divulge her feelings, have a good cry, and get put back on the job. But that wasn't her. She didn't like that kind of vulnerability. She could handle her own problems. She didn't need Dr. Macy Taylor to sort them out for her.
Macy Taylor sat on her couch with an exasperated look. "You know you can't go back to work until I clear you, right Teresa?" she asked finally. She seemed disappointed in her.
Lisbon sighed, her hands on her knees. "Look, Macy," she began. "I'm fine. It was tough, it's always going to be with me, and I'm okay with that. I need to go to work. Can't you see that?"
"Do you still have the night terrors?" Macy asked pointedly. The doctor's head dropped slightly to one side and her lips turned up sympathetically. Macy knew the answer.
The agent looked away briefly, then her green eyes locked back on Macy. "A few." Though the nightmares were vivid, the night terrors were almost worse. They left her extremely disoriented and confused, as well as sore. Skye wouldn't even sleep with her anymore for fear of getting hurt by Lisbon's thrashing. She hadn't told Macy about the hole in her wall she'd discovered after waking up from a night terror two nights ago.
Macy's face said she didn't believe her. "A night, maybe." Her voice was wry.
Lisbon sat back in her chair, resisting the urge to pull her knees up to her chest. Macy Taylor was older than Lisbon by about ten years, and she always thought of beaches when she saw the woman. Her hair was a sandy brown, her skin healthy and golden—not a golden of spending time in the tanning booth, but a natural skin tone that most women were jealous of. Her brown eyes were not only kind but measuring. She knew people.
Macy Taylor was very good at her job. Lisbon sometimes hated her for that.
"Let me prescribe you something to help you out—"
"No," Lisbon said forcefully. "No drugs."
"Taking antidepressants doesn't make you weak, Teresa."
"I don't need them."
Macy sighed. "You're being stubborn. You have PTSD. It's not something to mess around with."
Lisbon was silent for a moment, her eyes on the floor. She finally lifted them. "I've done a lot—said a lot—that I wouldn't do or say for anyone else," she began. "I've been to therapists before. I know how you work."
"I'm trying to help you."
Lisbon's brows came together. "I know, Macy. I know. I just…" she threw up her hands, unable to find the words. "Even if I take drugs, go to group therapy sessions, and talk about what happened, can you guarantee it's going to work? Are the nightmares and night terrors going to go away? Will I stop having flashbacks?"
Macy looked a bit uncomfortable. "I can't guarantee it, no."
"So why not let me do it my way, and see how that goes? If I'm not doing better in a couple months, then we reevaluate."
The older woman considered her, clicking her pen. "And I reserve the right to pull you off active duty for any behavior that I think endangers you or your team. Two months, but Dr. Hargrove clears you for active duty first. You still avoid using your left hand for most anything. ."
Lisbon scowled at her. "You're nosy."
Macy smiled smugly. "Observant. And I am a psychotherapist."
Dr. Hargrove, much to her dismay, insisted on a week more at home. He wanted her to stress her body this week and see how it did when lives weren't on the line. She could understand that even if she didn't like the answer.
He also tried to probe into her mental state, which left her irritated. Every time she went in, he pushed her. Pushed her until she snapped at him. He was a nice old man, who meant well, and she hated treating him poorly. But whether he meant to or not, he pushed her buttons.
Lisbon tossed her keys on the counter, trying to push back her anger and frustration. Skye whined at her. She wanted out.
"How 'bout a run, babe?" Lisbon asked her suddenly. Skye wagged her tail and barked happily. Lisbon hadn't taken her for more than a walk around the block in the last three weeks.
She could stress her body. A run sounded good right now, especially in the dusk where no one would see her struggle.
Lisbon stopped for breath about a quarter of the way through her normal route. Skye whined at her as the sudden stop jerked her collar.
"Sorry," she gasped, her hands on her knees. "Just a minute, Skye."
Anger forced her to straighten. Her lung was fine. She'd been in worse pain, had a harder time breathing, been in tougher situations.
"Suck it up, Teresa," she breathed irritably.
Right, left, right. Her feet pounded into the black asphalt. Her heart drummed in her ears, almost drowning out the sound of her ragged breathing. Two miles turned into four, then into six.
Suddenly her lungs seemed to freeze. She stumbled, sliding on her knees. Her hands went to her chest and she struggled for air. Black dots filled her vision and she felt tears on her cheeks. Her forehead was on the ground and she sucked breaths frantically.
She felt pressure against her spine, and she saw Jane's face in front of her. Monaghan's weight smothered her breathing. Jane was yelling at her, but her heart was pounding too loudly to hear. Her breath came in tortured gasps. Sharp pain shot from her hand.
"Dammit!" she cried, and coughed painfully. Her fists pounded the asphalt. "Damn you!" The vision dissipated reluctantly.
Slowly her breath normalized as she huddled on the ground, and she finally rolled over onto her back, still panting. The asphalt was still warm from the day, but the breeze was cool. Lisbon closed her eyes, letting the cool air wash over her.
She felt Skye nuzzle her hair and she reached a hand back absently, opening her eyes. The moon was nearly full, and Lisbon studied the detail. She'd lived in the city most of her life, but she knew that there were places that were so dark that there seemed to be three times as many stars as she could see now. Maybe more. The light in the city blocked them out, but they were there.
Finally she got to her feet. Her chest ached and her knees burned. Insult to injury, those knees. She and Skye slowly walked home, one painful mile at a time.
The one thing that Teresa Lisbon loved most about her apartment was the clawfoot bathtub she'd had installed when she moved in. As a kid, she'd dreamed about having one. You always saw them in movies, on TV, in commercials. Lisbon wasn't the type to splurge, but it had been worth it.
Skye immediately went for her water dish when Lisbon let her off the leash and she dropped it on the floor, along with articles of clothing on her way to the bathroom, grabbing a bottle of wine and a glass on her way. After a moment, she grabbed her gun as well. She felt nervous tonight, unsettled. Couldn't hurt to be safe.
When she got into her bathroom, she set the wine, glass, and gun on the stool next to her tub and turned on the faucet. She put the stopper in when it was warm and poured some bubble bath from Bath and Body Works into the basin.
As it filled, the mirror caught her attention. At that moment, she wondered why she had a full-length mirror in her bathroom. She only ever wore work clothes, never really examined her body or her attire.
She did tonight. It was surprising what she found.
Her face was still flushed from the run, but it was thinner than she remembered. Her green eyes looked the same, except maybe a little older.
The wound on her chest was healing nicely, but it was still pink as it continued to knit together. The ones down the middle of her chest were also still pink, but far more faint than a gunshot wound. She fingered the slash in her hip, larger than the others.
The doctors had offered to refer her to a plastic surgeon who specialized in dealing with scarring like she would have, but she refused. Now that she thought back, she saw the irony. A woman who refused to display any emotional damage from her experience at Monaghan's insisted on wearing the physical damage for the rest of her life. Yes, she saw the irony.
Along with all of her recent scars were those from the past. It was a shame that flesh was one of the first things to decay, because an archeologist a thousand years from now would have quite a story to document. There was one from her father, several from their first foster family. A gunshot to her left side, just under where a vest would sit. That one was nearly six years old. It didn't seem nearly so long ago.
A knife wound marred her right thigh from a gang tough a mere two years previous, and glass had sliced into her right shoulder in a wreck she'd been in during a high speed chase four years ago. Her partner had died in that one. She hated thinking ill of the dead, but he'd been an idiot, and he'd died for it. She was been lucky he didn't kill her too.
The only thing that was constant was that crucifix that still hung around her neck. She touched it briefly.
Lisbon sighed, dropping her hand, and flipped the water off. She popped the cork off the wine and poured a glass.
Slowly she stepped into the water and lowered herself carefully into the steaming tub. Lisbon winced as the hot water hit her bruised and torn knees, but it was worth it. She leaned her head back with a weary sigh.
Two glasses of wine later, the water had cooled and her feet felt pruny. Lisbon released the water and dried herself. She threw on some pajamas and carried the remainder of her wine out onto the balcony, long with her glass and weapon. Skye followed her silently.
Cradling the glass in her left hand—she was going to use her left hand for anything she could—she studied the skyline of Sacramento, at least what little of it she could see. It smelled like rain and she took a deep breath. She was on her third glass, which was more than she was used to, but she didn't care. It wasn't like she had any pressing obligations for another week.
So she brooded, reveling in the morose. Her chest still ached from the exertion earlier tonight. She felt the anger rise back up, the anger at herself. Would she never be able to just move on, to be free of him? Why couldn't her mind admit that she'd won? Why did she still feel Monaghan on her back, still feel his lips on her neck, his hands on her chest? Every night she fought him, and every night she lost.
Her dreams were vivid and terrifying. Most nights, Monaghan raped her violently. Sometimes he killed Jane. Sometimes he killed Lisbon. Sometimes she killed Jane. Sometimes it was an odd marriage of any number of the four. Always she woke up in a sweat, brought back to reality by her sore shoulder and hip, or her aching hand. Usually her hand.
She stood, a little unsteadily, leaning against the railing, her left hand cradling her nth glass of wine. Her right hand went to her neck, to the cross that hung there. It had been her mother's, and Lisbon remembered how Maggie Lisbon used to caress it as she prayed. Unbidden, the words came: In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. How many times had she heard that as a child? How many times had her devout mother said those words lovingly, reverently?
In a moment of anger, Lisbon yanked the crucifix off her neck, breaking the chain. Those same words had been used by Monaghan to sign away lives. How many times? Her father had likely said them. Kerrigan had.
She launched the crucifix into the night, and she saw it gleam as it arced down from her third story apartment. If God had any justice in him, he would have taken care of Monaghan years ago. Instead God had allowed him to continue destroying people in his name. How many people had he ordered the deaths of, in God's name? How many people had died while people like her father fell into his trap? God hadn't saved her mother, nor her father. He hadn't saved her. She'd had to save herself.
Or had she? The woman who had walked into that room wasn't the one who came out. The Teresa Lisbon who'd walked into that room was dead, no more. She wasn't exactly sure what had replaced her.
With a sigh, she stepped back, sitting back down. She filled her glass again, and her gun caught her eye. She wasn't sure why she continued to carry it around. Uneasiness followed her everywhere. Occasionally she would stop feeling the eyes, but rarely was that the case. She always felt eyes on her, the hair on the back of her neck raising. Macy had tried convincing her that it was her imagination, but she wasn't prepared to believe that quite yet. So she continued to carry it.
Lisbon picked up her gun. The metal felt cool against her palm. It felt right to be holding a weapon. It was an anchor, a solid—a constant. It was real.
Sometimes she wondered if that was her purpose in life. Lisbon closed her green eyes, trying to trap tears. Was she just a weapon? A tool? An extension of a will she didn't know?
It seemed that all she did was solve other people's problems. When her mother died, it was her job to keep things together. As a ten-year-old, she convinced herself that her father would get better if she would just keep the house together. He would stop drinking so much, would stop yelling, would stop hitting them with his fists.
He'd stopped alright. Joe Lisbon stumbled home drunk one night, yanked her out of her bed and beat the shit out of her because she'd left the bathroom light on. Her blood caused him to sober, and when he saw what he'd done, he put a shotgun in his mouth and blew his brains out in front of the three of them.
At that point, she had one goal—keep her brothers together with her. Through her unwavering insistence, they had eventually been united in a single home. An abusive home, but they were together. For a year, Lisbon had done what was necessary to keep her brothers safe and together, until her teacher reported the bruises, the broken bones, and the absences to Child Protective Services.
They moved on to more foster homes, her brothers in one, her in another. She went through seven, when each set of parents claimed she was impossible to deal with. Lisbon was a runaway, they said, when she only wanted to see her brothers, to be with them.
Finally, when she got out of the system, she adopted her brothers. She had been young, but she knew how to get her way. Lisbon knew they had to be together, and she had worked to put herself through college while they were in middle school and high school. Their small trust, left to them by their mother, had funded Dom's first year of school, but Lisbon was determined that both of her brothers would go to college. They did, and she paid for most of it.
Then in her job, she fixed problems no one else could fix. She found murderers and brought them to justice. That was who she was. A cop. Nothing else. She was no different than any other cop. Just a gun and a badge. She had no one in her life that needed her. Her brothers would miss her, but she rarely saw them anyway. Her death would be a sad occurrence that they would put behind them as soon as her body was in the ground.
Tears streamed down her cheeks and she dimly noticed that the safety was off on her gun. She realized she had been living for everyone but herself, and she always had. Was there any reason to live for Teresa Lisbon? Her parents had been avenged, her brothers were safe. What else was there to do? Everything she did was in the name of justice or family or revenge. Nothing for happiness. Nothing for her, with the exception of a clawfoot tub and a dog named Skye.
The metal of the gun cooled her cheek where it rested and she shut her eyes. What would it be like, to just end this? To stop seeing Monaghan's face every night, to stop feeling him on her, to stop feeling him in her? Something in the back of her mind said that suicide was a mortal sin, but she snarled back at it. Murdering her parents was a mortal sin in her book, and Monaghan had never been punished for that. In fact, he'd profited off it.
Suddenly, she heard a footstep behind her, and she leapt up, spinning with her weapon. Her vision swam dizzily as she dropped her glass. She heard it shatter on the deck of the porch.
Though his face was shadowed, she recognized his suit. His hands were up in surrender.
"I told you not to come back," she hissed finally. "Go away."
"I was driving by when this fell on my car," Patrick Jane said, holding out something shiny.
It was her necklace, her crucifix. Her heart clenched for a moment. "It's not mine. Driving by my ass. You were sitting down there, weren't you?"
Jane sat down in the other seat, the crucifix dangling from his hand. It was the first time she'd really noticed that she had two seats on her deck, even though they'd always been there. Why did she have two seats on her deck? "Maybe."
"I'm not in the mood, Jane," she said irritably, setting her weapon down. "Please, just leave."
"I came to apologize," he said, turning his head from the night sky to look at her. "I was out of line, and I said things I should have never said, no matter if they were true or not. I've come to realize that I care about you, and I said some hurtful things."
Lisbon found that she was a little stunned, and pushed her dark hair back as she thought. For once, Jane allowed her that silence, allowed her time to think. He didn't push.
"I…I accept your apology," she said finally, sitting down in her chair. "And I'm sorry for threatening you with my weapon. If it's any consolation, I never took it off safety."
"I know," he said, his voice slightly amused.
Lisbon leaned back and took a swig from the wine bottle, since she was sans glass. She held it out to Jane, who took it with a small smile.
"You weren't all wrong though," she admitted finally. "Which I'm sure you also know."
"Would you have pulled that trigger tonight?" Jane asked suddenly, passing the bottle back to her.
She took it slowly, gazing out at the horizon. It lit up briefly and a distant rumble of thunder reached her ears.
"I don't know," she said after a time. "I really don't, Jane."
"I thought I could. That's when they put me in the loony bin. Trust me, that's not somewhere you want to be. Every person you meet in there is either crazy or they're like me."
"There's a difference?" she asked dryly. He smiled.
They sat silent for a long time, passing the bottle back and forth wordlessly, watching the lightning in the distance.
"Did Macy ask you to come over here?" she asked finally, setting the empty bottle down on the ground.
"Macy? Oh, her," Jane murmured. "No. Well, yes, she asked me. She wanted me to hypnotize you—which says a lot, because she thinks I'm a fraud. But that's not why I came."
Lisbon laced her fingers across her stomach, her eyes still on the sky. "Why are you here, Jane?"
It took him a long time to answer. He sat up in his chair. "When my wife—when Ellen—was killed, and Evie—" he sighed with frustration. Lisbon's gaze moved from the distant storm to him, her expression patient.
"When that happened, I thought that the part of me that could enjoy life was gone. I couldn't see how I could ever regain it back. It was like they were that part, and Red John cut it out of me and then put it up on that wall. That was the part that made me care, that made me want to laugh, to…to love. It was gone."
Her heart resonated with his words. Monaghan had taken that slowly, beginning when she was young. He'd slowly clamped the arteries that fed that part of her until it had shriveled up and died. She felt empty, like a husk. There was nothing there except the small spark of buried hope that one day she'd feel something besides rage and fear and terror again.
Jane's voice dropped and he looked at his hands. He had the gold chain in his hands, and he played with the crucifix. "When Monaghan had you on the floor in front of me," he said hoarsely. "I realized that I still had that part of me. The part that cared about someone, that loved someone. I found it just in time to witness the first incision as Monaghan threatened to cut it out again."
Thunder rumbled ominously, closer this time. Skye whined and retreated indoors. She hated storms.
Lisbon's eyes were liquid and she fought to keep them in check. "Jane, I—"
He held up a hand. "Hold on, Lisbon. I want to finish. I was angry at myself for not realizing it sooner. Of all nights, you would think the one the night before might have jump-started it. No, it was when I almost lost you that I realized I couldn't handle it. I couldn't live through that again."
Jane shook his head, his eyes bleak. "Do you understand why I was mad at you? I realized that you were the most important thing in the world to me, and you just gave up. You were going to let him do what he wanted without a fight. Why wouldn't you fight for yourself, Lisbon?" he asked urgently. His voice was nearly a whisper.
She brought her knees up to her chest. "Because I was tired. I am tired. Tired of fighting, of trying so damn hard. Life shouldn't be like this," she whispered brokenly. Tears inched down her cheeks.
Jane rose from his chair and crouched next to hers. "Teresa, I want to fight for you, to be someone you'll fight for yourself for, because you know that I love you, that I need you—"
"Stop," she demanded hoarsely, tears flowing freely. She was on her feet and away from him in a heartbeat. "Stop, Jane. You don't mean that. Just stop."
He held up that golden chain, a whole one that held both her crucifix and his wedding ring. "I'm not doing this out of unchecked emotion, Teresa. I've had a month to think about this. I know the difference between infatuation and true feelings. Dammit, Lisbon. Why can't you believe that someone might actually care about you?"
Her hands trembled as she grasped the railing. Fat drops began to fall around them. She didn't answer.
"Because that means that you have worth," he said quietly, answering his own question. "That your life is more than a gun and a job. That you have a future that's worth living for."
A sob tore from her throat and he moved closer to her side, leaning against the railing next to her. "Teresa," he said quietly. "I'm not doing this to cause you pain. I'm doing it because you make me happy. You make me realize that there are more important things in life than the past and revenge. I want to make you happy. I want you to realize that there are more important things—better things—in life than the past and revenge."
Lightning lit up the sky, thunder following it quickly. Rain fell steadily now and the wind began to pick up. Jane hardly noticed.
"You don't understand, Jane," she whispered, bringing her head up.
He put a hand to her face, wiping tears away with his thumb. "Make me understand."
Her expression became distant. "I almost killed you," she said quietly. "To keep my cover I—" she broke off, unable to continue, unable to look him in the eye. "I almost did, and I'm so—" her voice broke off.
"I wasn't afraid to die, Lisbon, not if it would have spared you what you suffered," he whispered, taking her hand.
She shook her head. "I couldn't have that on my conscience."
He tapped her under her chin and her eyes focused on his. "I know," he said quietly. "And I couldn't bear it on my conscience if I let you destroy yourself because of what that bastard did to you and your family."
It was hard to distinguish the tears on her face from the raindrops, but he could see that she was crying. Thunder crashed nearby, lightning arcing down around the city. The wind was whipping up, blowing trees and streetlights.
"It was my decision, Jane," she said, her voice choked with tears. "My decision."
He put a hand on either shoulder, his face near hers. "Not anymore. You don't have to do things by yourself, anymore, Lisbon. I am here for you, if you'll have me."
Lisbon's face crumpled and Jane pulled her close. She shook silently against him as they stood in the rain, the torrential storm raging around them. He made small noises of comfort, one hand rubbing her back like he used to do for his daughter when she was upset. The other hand stroked her wet hair, his chin rested on the top of her head, and he noted that she smelled like honeysuckle. Finally, her arms went around him, and her sobs lessened, until she was finally still against him with only the occasional sniffle.
The rain was steady now, the lightning again in the distance. The thunder was silent, and he felt Lisbon shiver slightly.
"I was a hypocrite, Jane," she murmured against his chest. "I've killed people without a second thought, just because they were in my way. I have never felt more alive than that instant when I killed Monaghan. I don't even know if I'm a person anymore."
Jane took her shoulders gently and moved them apart enough that he could look into her eyes. "Teresa, there is a beautiful person in here," he said softly, his fingers light on her cheek. "You only let out the strength and the determination and justice and you think that's all you are. I see a person who is the most…most real person I have ever met. Stop hiding the rest of you away from the world, Teresa. Let them see your kindness, your humor, your beauty, your femininity. Let them see Teresa Lisbon, for better or for worse."
Tears welled up again and she leaned into him. He kissed her forehead, his hand on her head.
Suddenly, her lips sought his. Her hands cupped his face, her slim fingers in his hair. Jane pulled her closer, responding in kind.
The salty taste of tears mixed with that of rain, and he carefully pulled back. Her eyes were brimming, but she smiled slightly, tremulously.
"Oh, Teresa," he murmured, pushing back a skein of her wet hair. "This isn't a ploy. I'm not trying to use you."
"I—"
"No, you don't know," he interrupted. "Dammit, Teresa. Don't you get it? I love you, and only you. Even if you don't return it, I still will. You don't have to make good for that night because you think I took it wrong. I didn't. I know what you did, and I admire you for it. If you love me, then tell me, but don't do something you will regret because you think it will make me happy."
She turned from him suddenly, a bit unsteadily, her hand going to her lips. "Damn you, Jane," she whispered. He almost couldn't hear it. "I'm not the woman you want. I can't be her."
He grabbed her arm and spun her back around. "You are that woman, Lisbon. I just want you to be who you are and not who you think the world needs you to be. Stop being a coward."
His ears rang as she slapped him. Her face was furious. "I hate you," she hissed. She was nearly trembling with rage.
Jane rubbed his jaw slightly. Twice in one month. He was on his way to a record.
"Do you?" he asked, his eyes intent on hers.
Suddenly her rage shifted to something else almost faster than he could follow. Her hands grabbed his shirt, pulling him against her, and her lips were hot and demanding on his. Lisbon's fingers snaked up into his hair, her tongue forcing entrance into his mouth.
His hands cupped the base of her skull, his thumbs along her jawline and he took charge, kissing her forcefully. She made a small moan against him and their breath came in needy gasps. He backed her against the glass door, and his hands went to her hips, under her shirt and up her back, crushing her against him.
Her tongue intertwined with his, her teeth nipping his lips occasionally. Her hands were under his shirt, caressing his muscular chest. Her thumb flicked a nipple and he gasped, his insistent, hot kisses trailing down her neck to the spot where her neck met her jaw and she gasped. "I love you so much, Patrick," she panted, dropping her forehead under his chin. "As much as I've tried not to, I do."
"I think I just felt each end of the spectrum there," he said wryly, kissing her forehead. His hands continued to make circles on her back, his lips slowly kissing from her forehead down to her jawline.
She narrowed her eyes at him, but they crinkled in the corners with amusement. "You bring that out in me, I guess." Lisbon paused a moment, and his kisses ceased. "You know if you break my heart I get to kill you, right?"
She expected him to smile, but he didn't. His face was very serious. "I'm in this for the long-term, Teresa. I'm not here to kiss and run. You aren't going to scare me off, no matter how hard you try." Her hands were still on his chest and she finally slipped them around to his back, still under his shirt and vest..
Lisbon smiled, a little sadly, and rested her head on his chest, pressing herself against his warm body. "I don't want to scare you off, Jane," she murmured. "I just…this is hard for me. I'm not good at…well…sharing. I get defensive when I'm forced to. I know how you are…" His arms were like a warm blanket around her and she felt safe for the first time in weeks.
"You know what they say. The best defense is a good offense." His voice was amused, and maybe a little bitter. "You understand me better than you think, you just doubt yourself. That scared me, from the very beginning. So I put you on the defensive to keep you from seeing in here." He tapped his chest. "And because you're cute when you're angry," he teased.
"How 'bout when I'm drunk?" she asked.
He planted a kiss on her forehead. "That too."
"Jane…"
"Yeah?"
"I have to ask. The things you've said to me about…Red John." Her eyes sought his.
He gave her a grim look. "I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to kill him still," he said. "But I give him to you. It's your decision, not just because it's your case, but because you are the most important thing in the world to me. Not him." His voice was forceful. He meant it.
"And that," she said quietly. "Means more to me than anything you've said tonight."
The stood together, soaked, drunk, and tired, simply holding each other as if letting go would dissipate the dream they were having. Finally Jane pulled away. "You're shivering, Teresa," he murmured. "Why don't you go change?"
"Jane," she said, a little reluctantly. "I'm not ready for...further," her liquid eyes sought his, hoping she didn't offend him.
"It's okay," he said softly, pushing open the door, his hand on her back as she stepped inside. "I'm not either."
She nodded and went into her bedroom to change. Jane frowned. She had just flipped from confident and content to vulnerable. He knew that she wasn't completely healed just because he confessed his love to her, though he thought it would help to have someone in her life that she could open up to. It wasn't why he did it—he loved her so much that his chest ached with needing her. Not physically necessarily, but her presence comforted him. It made him feel warm inside, made him feel happy. Content. He wanted to find special ways to surprise her, to make her feel loved and wanted. And he wanted to do that for the rest of his life.
He heard a noise from her bedroom and frowned again. He knocked on the door. "Teresa?" he asked. She didn't answer, but he could tell the sound now. She was crying. He opened the door.
Lisbon sat on her bed in pajama pants and a tank top, wiping her face hurriedly. His eyes picked out the hole in her drywall immediately.
She handed him a large T-shirt and some shorts as if nothing were wrong. "Dom left these," she sniffed. He studied her critically but went to change, as quickly as he could. When he came back she was more collected, but still on the verge of collapse.
"Teresa, what's wrong, sweetheart?" he asked, sitting beside her. He put an arm around her and drew her close. The tears sprung back to life at his touch.
"I'm scared of hurting you, Patrick," she whispered hoarsely. "I don't think I can stand for you to...to touch me right now, not like that, or even be here when I'm sleeping. I'm afraid that I'll wake up and not know you, or I'll have a night terror and—"
He put a finger on her lips and she gave him a confused look. "Stop," he said firmly. "First, I'm good at ducking. Second, you've slapped me before." She barked a laugh through her tears on that one. "And third, we take this as fast or slow as you want. I'm here not because I need sex, not because I need companionship, but I'm here because I love you. So, we're both tired, we're both a little inebriated, and we could both use some sleep. Here," he said, settling in on one side of the bed. He held his arm open like he had that night at Monaghan's and she smiled.
Lisbon carefully climbed over him and settled beside him, shifting until she was comfortable. Jane flipped off the lamp, and a weight lifted from them both as they sank into a deep, contented sleep.