Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended, no money gained, and I'm way too poor to be confused with Bruno Heller anyway.
AN: Today's update is special to me for two reasons. First, this chapter marks a turning point – we are exactly halfway in the story. There's 13 chapters left, and it's starting to get exciting. Second, I just realised this story has reached the 100-reviews mark. People, I have no idea how to express how grateful I am to you. To be honest, I'm a bit overwhelmed – I've been writing fics for nearly 20 years now and this has never, ever happened to me. I very literally broke down in tears when I realised there were three digits on the number of reviews. So, thank you. Thank you so much. Have the longest chapter yet and a double helping of fluff as an expression of my happiness.
Warning 1: This chapter ends in gore and a canon character's death (sorry, had to balance the 2k words of fluff xD). If graphic descriptions of the results of torture trigger you in any way, please stay safe. I will also up the rating for this reason, just in case.
Warning 2: Some of you already know this, but this might be the, uhm, right moment to tell you that in my stories, no character is safe. No villain. No sympathetic bastard. No ally. No member of the team. And no narrator. I have a very GRRM view about this. I can, however, promise you that all deaths will be meaningful and a way to keep the plot going.
I'm sorry. Please don't kill me?
Chapter 14 - Wish
As soon as they find themselves a new place to spend the night, Jane insists they dye their hair. Reluctant at first when he grins and offers, as a treat, to wash her hair afterwards, she relents when he points out the pure practicality of that arrangement – dyeing each other's hair means, of course less risk of it turning into a messy business, which she really wants to avoid.
They laugh at each other when, after coating Jane's hair with dark goo and her own with bleach, they have to sit for a while with towels on their head – both trying to ignore the fact his chest is bare and she's wearing the bloodstained t-shirt again. Side by side, they watch television in silence for a while – until she can't stand the smell and heat of the products in her hair anymore. Then she asks him to wash it out, which he does happily, replacing bleach with auburn dye and a new towel.
"I'm really not sure about this," she says, facing the mirror with a bemused expression.
"You'll look just fine, Teresa. And you know as soon as this is over, you can go back to your usual shade," he answers, and the quirk at the corner of his mouth comes and goes so quickly she isn't sure if it's a smile or a smirk.
She keeps staring for a while longer, until he puts his hand on her upper arm and smiles – a real one this time. She follows him back to the room.
"Didn't you ever dye your hair as a teen?" he asks as he sits on the edge of the bed.
"We didn't have money for that," she says, taking the couch. "Not that I had any interest for it really. Jimmy though, he tried to use kool-aid when he was eleven to look more like some cartoon character in a show he watched, but he didn't let it sit long enough. He was aiming for vivid green, but it came out a strange swamp colour that washed out the next day, thank God. It was the middle of the 80s, the school threatened to expel him. Plus, it made a mess and the kitchen smelled like apples gone bad for a week. My father was furious.
- Ah yes, the kool-aid dye," he grins. "Danny did that too – my brother-in-law, remember him? He had those very pale blonde hair when he was a kid, and once he started learning the trade, he decided funky colours would help him step up his act, keep the eye of the public on him – a lot of us carnies did that back then, before having blue or green hair was popular. So, Danny – for a few weeks he sported this vibrant, clearly unnatural, absolutely fantastic cherry red hairdo, and of course I was very jealous so I riled him up about it every time I could.
- Of course," she laughs. "What happened to make him revert to his natural hue?
- He decided he wanted to put together an underwater escape act, so he stopped reapplying it when he realised red water wasn't good for show-business. And then the dye started turning pink as it was washing out and he couldn't get it out of his hair fast enough, so he shaved it all."
She cracks up again, and Jane laughs a little before coming to sit by her side again, clearly more comfortable now despite his lack of shirt.
"Why didn't you dye yours, if you wanted to so badly?" she asks, grinning.
"Unfortunately, I couldn't. My own act at that time was still taking advantage of how youthful I looked, so coloured hair was out of the question. I had to keep up that boy-scout image – shorts and neckerchief included.
- What?" she guffaws.
"Oh yes," he chuckles. "On stage, I was the most innocent, adorable little angel you can imagine – so that no one would accuse such a perfect kid of being a fraud. Off stage, of course, I was a charming scamp.
- That I can believe," she says. "In fact, it's pretty much still accurate.
- You find me charming? Why, thank you Lisbon!" he grins.
"The scamp part," she says, knowing her own grin belies any annoyance her words try to convey.
And the fact is, he is charming – alarmingly so, and he knows it, and he knows she knows it too. So instead of letting him further fishing for compliments, she taps his shoulder lightly and stands up.
"Time to take that goop off your head, come on."
He follows, that usual smile on his lips, and she puts the second-to-last towel they bought for that use on the side of the bathtub.
"You can either kneel and put your forehead on the towel, or sit and use it for your neck," she says, all business.
"Oh, I'll kneel before you, Lisbon. Anytime," he grins.
"Damn it, Jane, stop turning all my sentences into dirty innuendos," she sighs, rolling her eyes.
He chuckles and, grabbing the edge to keep his balance, puts out his neck over the bathtub.
"I feel like I'm about to be executed," he sing-songs
"Shut it," she laughs – and doesn't resist hitting his nape lightly with the edge of her hand in a parody of decapitation before removing the towel on his hair.
The shower head isn't movable, so she uses the large glass by the sink to pour warm water on his head. Purplish brown, nearly black dye falls all over the tub – it takes a long time before the water clears. And that suits her, not that she'll ever admit it out loud – because she discovered that morning how much she likes trailing her fingers through Jane's hair, and how much she likes to feel him relax slowly when she does.
She only stops when she realises he's shivering slightly.
"Done! Are you alright?
- I'm fine," he says, voice strained. "Just – uhm –
- You must be freezing. Wait a minute, I'll get you something to cover up.
- No no, that's fine, I – ah, just need a minute to – er."
She frowns, but then he raises his head and she gets a glimpse of his darkened eyes and – oh.
Right.
"I'll, uhm, just wait outside," she says. "Sorry, I didn't mean to – I mean, take your time."
His low chuckle follows her out of the bathroom. How is he so calm about this? She feels completely mortified – and, if she's honest with herself, a little bit aroused too. But she never expected Jane to – which was stupid really, because she's seen him when he was in fugue state, and he used to be married, he had a child, which means he once – at least once –
Before she has time to process this new information, he strolls out of the bathroom with a smirk, towel around his neck – and she cannot look him in the eye, cannot look at him at all really, and how did he even have time to – ? She jumps from the bed to the couch, hyper-aware of his presence as he puts on a clean shirt and – she has to stop looking.
"Lisbon," he says, amused.
He lets himself fall on the couch beside her – and her first reaction is to scoot over to make sure they don't touch.
Which is ridiculous.
But still doesn't convince her to move back.
"Hey. Look at me.
- Hmm?"
She turns her head minutely. He's grinning.
"I won't jump you, if that's what you're afraid of.
- I know that!" she scoffs.
"It's just a mechanical reaction," he says gently. "My neck is sensitive, and it's been a long time since someone touched me like that. I liked it, and my body reacted. I needed a minute to calm down. That's all. Nothing to worry about."
She's pretty sure her face is red right now.
"I didn't mean to – " she squeaks, then stops when she realises how high her voice is. "I'm sorry," she tries again, with better results.
"I'm not," he says, smiling. "It was very enjoyable."
Then he stands up, pulls her to her feet and guides her to the bathroom again.
"What are you doing?!
- It's your turn," he points out.
"I think I can manage alone," she says, her voice embarrassingly high again.
"Don't be ridiculous. Let me help."
He sits on the edge of the bathtub, on which he already put the last towel, and looks at her pointedly. Feeling awkward, she sits on the ground and drops her hair in the bathtub, exposing her neck – and closing her eyes to avoid having to look at him. The first glass of warm water on her hair surprises her – she was expecting it, but she feels so anxious any foreign touch is enough to make her jump. Then Jane's hands are gently, expertly massaging her scalp, and she takes deep breaths, slowly relaxes – relishing the attention.
After a while she realises Jane's hands stopped moving a moment ago – one of them lightly cupping her cheek, his thumb resting on her temple. Opening her eyes, she finds him looking down at her – and his eyes are so tender, his expression so open it takes her breath away.
"Done," he says huskily.
I could kiss you right now, she thinks – and she knows he can see it written all over her face, because his eyes are starting to darken again and the pressure of his fingers on the side of her head increases minutely.
I really wish I could.
Then she blinks and averts her eyes, and he removes his hand with a barely audible sigh, and the moment is over.
One of their phones is ringing.
"Hi Grace," he says, as she wraps the towel over her wet hair. "Are you calling about Cordero?"
She takes her time in the bathroom, getting herself into dry clean clothes, washing her hands, brushing her teeth – finding her footing again, because emotionally she still feels as if in the middle of a small earthquake.
When she gets back in the room, she spends some time looking away from him, busying herself with mundane tasks again. She's very glad to find a spare blanket in the closet, too, because once again Jane has booked a room with only one bed – and why does he keep doing that?
"Alright. Thank you Grace," he says, and she turns to him.
He closes the phone and looks her way – and, yes! Work. Good. Perfect distraction.
"Cordero senior was a member of Visualise until his death three years ago," he says. "But his son isn't a member of the cult and is working as a detective in San Francisco.
- Does he live in a house? Could he be hiding McAllister?" she asks, frowning.
"It's an apartment, but after a lot of digging around, she found out a shack registered to his father's name in the country just south of Bakersfield. It doesn't belong to Visualise, either, so I'm guessing that's as good as any place to begin the search."
She nods.
"Let's go there tomorrow then. It's just a bit over four hours from here – if we time this right, we could get there by noon.
- Yes, that's what I had in – what are you doing?"
She blinks, thrown by the sudden change in his voice.
"Turning the couch into my bed? What's the matter with you?
"You are not sleeping on the couch," he says, seemingly on edge. "Last time I let that happen, you nearly got killed!
- Last time you let – you should have thought of that before booking a room with only one bed!" she says, annoyed.
He closes his eyes, obviously pained.
"Take the bed, then," he says. "If you really don't want to share.
- It think it's better not," she answers quietly.
For a moment he seems to be about to ask why – but then thinks better of it. He swallows, his throat bobbing up and down, and nods.
"Take the bed," he says again. "I can't let you sleep on the couch – I wouldn't sleep at all."
She could object – she really could, and would in any other circumstances. But she remembers all too well what happened this morning – his chattering teeth, his wild eyes, his hands painfully clenched on her back – and relents.
"Good night, Jane," she says as she closes the lights.
"Good night, Lisbon."
She falls asleep mulling over the sad undertone in his voice.
Neither of them sleep very well. Morning finds them tired and restless, still hyped up from the last few days. Jane's eyes are red and puffy, and she's reminded of the way he looked when she woke him up that day after his week-long retreat in the attic.
It wasn't so long ago, but it feels like ages now.
They eat quickly in the hotel's diner – she doesn't taste anything and, from Jane's weary features, she can see he doesn't enjoy the food either. As they leave, just before he unlocks the car, she takes his hand.
He looks at her, surprise etched on his face.
"Hey," she says.
"Hey yourself," he says back, and smiles when she presses his hand.
"Ready to go back into wanted territory?"
He grins – and she can see the expression is genuine.
Good.
"When am I not ready to wreck havoc on the world again?
- Come on then, partner. Let's unleash you on poor unsuspecting California," she says, releasing his hand and slipping into the driver's seat before he can stop her.
He laughs and, shaking his head, runs to the other side.
She doesn't know what's going on with him, and he isn't quite out of his funk yet – but he's getting there.
She'll get him there.
The four-hours drive is spent mostly in silence. They do crack a joke here and there, just to remind themselves they are still the same, still in this together – but in the end they have much to think over. She has no idea what's going on in Jane's mind, but as for her, she's starting to wonder what they'll find in Cordero's shack. What if Red John is there? What if she has to watch Jane kill him without trying to stop him? Because she won't, she's not naive enough to think there's another way to go about it now. Not with just about the whole of California's law enforcement turned against them because of the whispers of one man.
But can she really watch him kill a man in cold blood?
"You need to turn here," says Jane, fiddling with the GPS.
The road is shadowed with trees growing a wild canopy over their heads. It would be beautiful if it wasn't possibly the lair of a killer – something neither of them can quite forget, even as they admire how everything seems peaceful here. She stops the car a hundred feet from an old shack at the end of the alley.
"This is it," she says. "Ready to go?
- Yeah," he whispers, features crunched painfully.
"You still have your gun?
- Of course. You?"
She sends him a glare – as if she'd forget her weapon. He quirks his lips in the shadow of a smile.
They walk toward the house cautiously, Jane taking the lead – and how weird is that? But she doesn't question his need to go first – he told her often enough about his claim on Red John. At least this time she fully has his back.
The door is open.
Just a crack, but that's enough to put her senses on high alert – and by the way Jane's form is coiled, ready to jump at the slightest provocation, she knows he's on the lookout.
They enter.
The floorboards crack under their feet, there's dust everywhere, and she has to pinch her nose to stop herself from sneezing. The air is stale, as if nobody came in for quite some time – but there's footprints in the dirt and all the doors in the small place are open.
Save one.
She brushes her elbow against Jane's back and nods toward it – when she tries to take the lead, he stops her with a firm hand and shakes his head. She glares at him, but he's unmovable – and with an impatient sigh, she pushes him toward the door. They'll have to talk about this later, but now isn't the time.
Jane reaches for the doorknob – and turns it slowly.
A blood red smiling face greats them on the other side.
She can feel her partner stiffening beside her – and she knows her own hands are shaking, but this, she has to do. She has to know. So she gently pushes him out of the way, walks in, ignores the smell of iron and rotting meat, and flicks the lights open.
Then she freezes.
He's tied to a chair, and covered in gore. His head is nearly upside down over the backrest, his silvery hair shimmering under the yellow light bulb, his throat and the large gash across it completely uncovered. His feet are missing toes and she realises, queasy, that she can see most of them littered around the room, stuck to the ground in congealed blood. There's a burn on his cheek, and his bare chest is slashed so badly there isn't an inch of untouched skin.
She barely feels Jane's hand on her shoulder – because he was tortured, and this is her fault, and right now her mind is blank of anything that isn't guilt and grief.
Oh, Ray.
Tomorrow's prompt: Need