I thought this was going to be the last chapter, and then it wasn't. So lucky you. You get more time to prepare for the end of my fic!!! :)
I just couldn't get the chapters to track with the change of pace and emotion, and then it ran really, really, really, really, long...
When you don't know what to do…
It becomes clear to Jane that Lisbon has had enough of talking about her dream, her nightmare. A premonition now, he realizes; if you want to believe in that. In her dream, Carter became a statue, because she tried to help him, a futile effort. You can't help someone bent on revenge; it's one of those things that are either singular or national. Everyone needs to feel the pain and agree on the act of vengeance or only one and everyone else ruins their life trying to stop it. She remains silent, if she wants to talk she will. This isn't the time to prod her, even Jane listens to common sense sometimes.
She's staring at the roof, surprised by its blandness. Has she ever just looked at it before? Perhaps she should paint it, an interesting pattern, or motif, perhaps a mural. Subconsciously she runs her hands up her sides, the weird material shocks her. What is she wearing?
She looks down surprised. Jane is still sitting at the end of the bed, watching her carefully.
She squints in the darkness, looking at Jane. He's wearing overalls too. She remembers Van Pelt telling her she needs to exchange clothes, trace. She licks her lips, realizing she hasn't eaten or drank anything in over twelve hours, since breakfast.
"Could you get me some water?" She asks.
Jane jumps up in surprise, "Of course." It stuns him that he hasn't thought of it before. He leaves her bedroom, walking the short hallway to the kitchen.
She goes back to pondering her clothing, eventually she gets up off the bed. She feels slightly shaky, knowing that she's coming to the end of her denial rope. She's quite sure Jane thinks she's in denial over her attraction to him. She's not. She knows. Van Pelt too for that matter, that stupid, awkward conversation they'd had in the park, about Jane still being married, that pitiful excuse for changing the subject. Well, no, she was telling the truth. Jane is still married. Death is the end of a life, not a relationship. But steadily, Jane has been changing. He stills loves his wife, Lisbon would never want him not to, but there's room in his heart now, even if he doesn't consciously realize. But he's been so jealous, Van Pelt was the first to notice, she must have been. Rigsby isn't the type to realize that another man is jealous over a woman, unless it's Van Pelt. Lisbon smiles softly at that, those two are so sweet. Eventually it's going to be down to her to prod them together. Jane's too vocal, too pushy, they resist simply because it's Jane doing the prodding. One day, she's going to make sure they do something about their attraction.
Cho probably knows, at the very lest he notices. Cho's like that. But he would never say anything or do anything about it. He doesn't interfere, he's just there, steady like the kiln on a boat, directing, guiding but never interfering in the journey. That's someone else's job. So of course it would have fallen to Van Pelt to tell Lisbon that Jane was acting jealously. The thing was Lisbon has always known there was something between them. Just because she had decided to ignore and suppress the knowledge doesn't mean she ignorant of the fact.
She was thinking about these things as she stripped out of the mass-produced overalls, they're rather basic and now that she thinks about it, particularly itchy. She unclips her bra, flinging it into the clothes basket in the corner, kicking the overalls off her feet too. They fling wildly into the corner of the room. She has a moment of panic when she realizes that Jane could come back at any moment, she forgoes stripping down completely and quickly throws on an old t-shirt. She's lucky, she notices, when she turns around and finds Jane is standing there armed with two cups; one glass, one mug. He didn't see anything she decides, he's not making any idiotic and undeniably attractive quips about her body or lack of clothing. She likes that he can force her to feel emotion, to feel attractive, desirable, as if it's a given, a constant in this life, something that comes as easily to her as breathing. She's never truly felt that before, with no strings attached. Jane makes her feel a weird conglomeration of acceptance, embarrassment and flattery.
Jane had wondered what she might be doing while he was organizing her water and a tea for himself. He wanted to give her a few moments of privacy; it seemed as if she wanted to get out of her borrowed clothes. He hadn't expected to walk in on a partially naked Lisbon back, stretching enticingly. He swallowed a nervous gulp. Quickly cleared his facial expressions and moved forward into the room. She turned and accepted the glass.
"Thanks." She said softly.
That was the last word he heard from her for two days.
It wasn't as if she was deliberately trying to avoid him, or to not talk to him. She didn't try to get him to leave her house; she didn't call a cab and wait for him to enter it. She didn't even greet the team, other than a smile, when they came over on the second day to see how she was doing. She simply stopped talking. And he knew, she hadn't cried yet. It was like, by not talking, she was mourning. She rarely smiled, she didn't get annoyed, she didn't sigh in frustration. Jane was starting to contemplate ways to embarrass her just so she'd get flustered and he'd know she was still alive, still in there somewhere.
Van Pelt, Rigsby and Cho had come over when he called them. They had been worried on the first day, but Jane had been adamant that they give her the opportunity to pull herself out of this silent hole she had placed herself in. It was the dawn of the third day now, and even Jane had to admit, this wasn't right. He just needed her to say something, anything, and she wasn't. He'd sat her down and told her he'd needed her to say something. A word, a sentence, a little bit of a step in the right direction; just so he wouldn't have to call the shrinks in, and he knew how much she hated that. She hadn't even blinked. Just looked at him serenely, sipped some more of her raspberry cordial and went back to reading the newspaper.
The five of them were sitting in Lisbon's living room, camped out in various tension-filled positions on her couch. Well, Van Pelt, Rigsby and Cho were tension-filled, Lisbon seemed utterly relaxed, except for the non-talking, and Jane looked relaxed anywhere. Besides, Jane had been practically living at Lisbon's since the shooting. He'd gone home for a couple of hours to pack, and when he'd returned, Lisbon had been in a worse state than before. He'd found her underneath her bed, it was one of those older slat-based double-beds, she was staring up at the slats, running her fingers over them, pushing the wood up into the mattress, seeming to get some sort of consolation from their heavy resistance. He'd vowed not to leave her alone again. Until she was better.
It was so quiet. Van Pelt didn't know how Jane could stand to stay here. Isn't that why he fell asleep so often in the office? He needed noise.
Cho had a healthy appreciation for silence. Appropriate silence, but this wasn't it. This was the wrong sort of silence. This was the silence car accident victims heard the moments before conscious came fully back. Those few indefinable moments where the horror, and the pain, the lights and the heat or the cold, the darkness or the light hadn't invaded consciousness. Hadn't invaded those sleepy dream-times where truth wasn't known or cared about. Where reality didn't matter, but those moments, they weren't supposed to last, to drag on and create extended uncomfortableness. Lisbon wasn't still supposed to be dwelling there. That's what was wrong, she was still in that dream-time, in that awake-sleep, and she needed to wake up. But you can wake up a sleep-walker or in this case a sleep-waker.
Rigsby's large frame overwhelmed Lisbon's couch, and if she could feel anything, she'd probably have found it amusing. As it was, it remained an odd sight. She knew should feel something, some kind of gratefulness or sense of family, that her team thought enough of her, loved her enough, to come and hang out with the catatonic, non-speaking wraith that used to be Teresa Lisbon. But she couldn't, she couldn't even wholly be angry at herself for her pitiful non-reactions. Sleep didn't help, not-eating didn't help. Nothing helped. When would this blanket of nothingness go away? Maybe she needed to get out of the house? Yes, that might be it, go outside, see the day… seize the day. Do something unremarkable but wholly wonderful in its simplicity. If only she could recognize something like that once she got outside.
She stood, pausing at the front door, to slip some shoes on.
The team watched in astonishment as Lisbon moved. She hadn't moved from her seat for an age. Jane knew it had been five hours. At least today he had managed to talk her into getting reasonably dressed. For the first day afterward, she had remained in that shirt, the one that fell to mid-calf and left him trying to avoid looking at her legs for hours on end. He just wasn't used to seeing Lisbon legs, they kept reminding him of what else they were connected to as well, he would have flashbacks to seeing her back, in the muted, elegant colors of the bedroom.
She was padding down the pathway to the street when he finally made a decision.
"Okay. I'm going to follow her. Make sure she doesn't do anything too crazy. You can stay here, and wait, or…" He didn't want to outright tell them to leave. They had every right to stay at Lisbon's house and hope she came back to them alright, but he knew waiting around in an empty house wasn't exactly the most comfortable arrangement.
"No. We'll go. Let her know we'll come by..." Van Pelt decided for the three of them. Jane nodded thankfully. It actually made looking after Lisbon easier if he didn't have to worry about what they would think of her state of mind. The mind was a delicate thing, he knew, sometimes it healed itself when you didn't have thirty people watching you intently. Sometimes you just needed the time to go a little crazy, a little off the wall. Lisbon deserved the chance to get the weird out.
Lisbon followed the small path, the small, concrete, pristine path. She wondered who trimmed the edges, the grass was very neat. She kept following the path, hoping that whatever worked for Dorothy and the Scarecrow, and the Tinman and the Lion, would work for her to. But she wasn't trying to get home or to the Emerald City, there was no wizard who could give her back what she had lost. She didn't even know what she had lost. It was a beautiful thought though, that somewhere, out there, was a man, a wizard, who held the power to give you a new heart, or brain, or courage, who could find the way home for you. She'd take Jane with her, if he existed. She didn't know what Jane needed. He had a heart, it was wounded, possibly broken, but it would be horrendous to try and give him a new one. It would diminish what he had with his wife and daughter to try and replace them.
Jane followed her at a respectable distance; she didn't seem to know where she was going. But she was at ease. Maybe she was thinking about important things, or nothing at all, as long as she was alright, that's all that mattered. Lisbon had to be alright, she had to be well, unhurt, able to overcome. That's all he wanted right now, Red John could wait.
She stopped on the precipice of a park. It looked familiar. Did she used to run here? It was peaceful.
She moved toward a low bench, sitting down carefully, as if she had forgotten how to trust her body to do what her mind wanted it to. He sat beside her, gently easing his way into her vision.
They stayed that way for a few minutes.
Then she spoke.
"I don't want to go back." Meaning the house, of course.
Jane paused; he wanted them to talk about what they'd been avoiding. He wanted her to deal with the problem but if she couldn't, he just wanted the old Lisbon to return. Even if it was a lie.
"Are you coming back soon?" He inquired.
"Yeah, home soon." She responded with a sigh, almost disappointed that Jane had suddenly become the responsible one.
"No. Are you coming back soon?"
She actually turned to look at him. He almost smiled.
She bit her bottom lip, brow frowning, thinking hard.
Jane didn't even think, his hand moved of its own accord, reaching out to breach the distance between them. His thumb pulling the worried lip from the catchment of her teeth, his skin resonated with the memory of the quarter kiss. He wondered if he would ever taste the dollar.
It was something less than static, but not quite alive. Soothing memory, life, remembrance. She didn't want to remain this way, perhaps it was time. She didn't want to become a statue either, she didn't want to be locked in some horrific tableau forever entrenched in the unending gaze of a burning house, loved ones trapped beneath, the wildflower fields rotting away under her feet. She wanted to reach that happy house, at the end of her life, fulfilled, awake, joyful, her life lived.
A thought came to her. A strange, odd thought. She knew she should probably be embarrassed by the images and emotions that accompanied it, but she wasn't, and she wouldn't allow herself not to take the moment and make it real. First things first, though, a little damage control.
"Can I do something? Try something?" She asked. The slight park wind dragging the words from her lips past Jane's ears.
"Yes." He replied, grateful for anything.
"You won't… make it bigger, than what it is?" She added.
He cocked his head to the side. He couldn't read her, couldn't figure out what she was asking.
"How would I make it bigger?" He eventually asked when it became clear she wasn't going to try it, whatever it was, until she got the answer she wanted.
"Just, let it be." Echoing The Beatles.
He watched her face intently, "Okay." He breathed, whatever she wanted he would give it to her, if only so he could have her back. His Lisbon. Not the Carter-destroyed Lisbon.
He turned to face her fully, perching awkwardly on the wooden bench.
She closed her eyes.
A careful hand reached upwards, fingers dragging across his shaven jaw. Her thumb soothed his cheek, her eyes open now. Thinking.
He froze, not a stiff, paralyzed freeze, more a careful, deliberate waiting. What would she do next? Where was she going with this? What was she trying to achieve?
She shifted forward. A quick look into his eyes, he gazed back patiently. Another quick look, eyes shifting right to left, gauging his stillness.
He must have blinked, it was the only explanation. One moment Lisbon's face was in front of him, watching him intently, and the next, cold lips were melting into his.
It wasn't chaste, it wasn't passionate. It was a kiss unlike any he was used to, it was a looking kiss. A kiss to look; not to search, searching implied knowing at least in some way what you were looking for. This kiss wasn't like that. This kiss had no ulterior motive. It was almost… an experiment, lacking emotion. That wouldn't do.
Remembering that kiss in the park, Jane would say he didn't quite know why he changed it. Why or where the impulse came from to deepen the kiss, to change it. He'd joke about it, say he intended it, all lies. His analytical mind shut down and another part of him, one he had almost forgotten took over. He would suppose it was because, during the undercover operation, those feelings and unknowable emotions had been so close to the surface. His inherent mistrust of Carter, the revenge vendetta that he just knew would end up with Lisbon hurt, the way his eyes couldn't ever leave Lisbon alone. The way he hated Tina because she was everything false about Lisbon, they way her laugh would sparkle but wouldn't ring true, the gorgeous light of her eyes that didn't come from him, but from Carter, and then the way Carter's death stole from her.
Later, he would realize, that his platonic, teasing, possessive emotions regarding Lisbon weren't all that platonic. That he was disguising his desire by thrusting her away. By consciously embarrassing her, but even then, he would eventually realize, he chose methods that prodded her, caused her to notice the attraction between them. Why did he do that? Why had he chosen her of all people to try to piece him back together? Wrap his heart in a ribbon; hold the jagged shards together with commitment and strength?
But at the time, in the park, face engulfed in one of her little hands, wind swirling behind them, so reminiscent of the pier, he moved his hands from their stationary positions. They rose, grasping the back of her head, her hair was pulled into a messy ponytail, his nimble fingers let it out.
She let out a soft breathe of surprise. It didn't even make him pause. His right hand began to knead the back of her neck, letting out some of the tension she was holding in her back. Later, if she'd let him, he'd try to talk her into a massage. Not necessarily by him (although that would be nice) but because he knew she needed to decompress. She needed to release the things she was holding inside.
Soft lips, warming up. Mingled breathe, sweet sucks. Dexterous fingers, relaxing feel.
It wasn't a long kiss, not by anyone's standards. But it was, exactly what she needed. She tried to pull back twice before Jane finally let her. She smiled into this shirt, burying her head into his collar. Suddenly tears sprang to her eyes. Carter, her heart wrenched out. He was gone.
Her sobbing started out softly, hiccuping faint noises that only he could hear, and mostly feel. It grew louder and she clung to him. He wrapped his arms around her small frame. A mix of happiness and grief enveloping him as he tried to soothe her distress; thankful, finally, that her pain was coming out.
She didn't stop for three hours; even the walk home was punctuated by her sobs and tears.
The rest of the team had left, for which they were both grateful. Jane couldn't seem to drag up the effort to be flighty, to revel in inconsequence. He needed this to mean something.
Yeah, so kind of an ambiguous chapter... what does it mean? And all that... :)
I liked this though, the weird feeling in it, the not-quite-sure-how-to-feel ness about it.
Arc, what do you think? ;)