A/N: I haven't forgotten about this series, I'm just chipping away at it bit by bit between other projects. Red Violin kind of took over my life for most of November and December so now I'm coming back to some of my other works in progress. For those of you following Beyond Measure, I am still working on it but I must beg your patience because I am in a particularly long and tricky section and I want to get all the details sorted out across the chapters before I start posting. There may be quite a long hiatus when it comes to posting on that story as I work through various plot points, but rest assured I am still plugging away at it! Here's the next installment of Reflections to tide you over in the mean time. Hope you enjoy.

xxx

Your wife wants me to tell you that your daughter never woke up. She didn't know what happened. She wasn't scared, not even for a second.

She never woke up.

She wasn't scared.

Not even for a second.

Jane stared at the one way glass in the interrogation room, unseeing. He wanted to believe it. He wanted to believe it so badly he could taste it. The strength of his wanting tasted like the bitter, coppery tang of blood. It was a terrible thing, craving so deeply to believe a lie.

His eyes were wet, but the tears refused to fall. They clogged his throat, threatening to drown him.

She wasn't scared. Not even for a second.

His baby girl. His daughter, who laughed with her whole body, her rosy cheeks dimpling and her eyes sparkling with mischief. Who kissed him on the nose when she thought he was sad, who begged for airplane rides and treated him like her own personal jungle gym. His sweet, perfect child. He stared into middle distance and remembered.

He didn't hear the door open. His brain dimly registered the faint scent of cinnamon before the rest of his mind processed the significance of its presence.

"There you are," Lisbon said, half exasperated, half affectionate. "I've been looking for you all over the place."

He turned away hastily, ducking his head. He didn't want her to see him like this.

"What is it?" he asked shortly.

She faltered at his tone and her steps paused. "I wanted to get your input on a case file I'm reviewing," she said hesitantly.

Her hesitation told him she'd sensed something was wrong. He hunched his shoulders and turned farther away from her. "I'm busy right now."

He could practically hear her frown. "Jane? What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," he said with false bravado.

"Then why won't you look at me?" she asked, not having it. He could still hear the frown in her voice.

He didn't answer.

She approached him cautiously. "Jane."

She would not give up and go away, no matter how unpleasant he made himself. He knew this. Knew her. Recognizing there was no way to make her leave without facing her first, he bowed to the inevitable and turned to look at her. He knew she could see the redness in his eyes and hated himself for it.

She sucked in a breath. "Jane?" she said. "What is it? What's the matter?"

"Nothing's the matter," he said woodenly. "Only that I'm a fool. That's all. Nothing more earth-shattering than that."

"Jane," she said unhappily.

He sighed. "Don't worry about it, Lisbon. Please. Just… go work on your case file. I'll be all right."

She drew closer and perched next to him on the interrogation table. "Grace said Kristina Frye came to see you," she said tentatively. "Did she say something that upset you?"

"Of course not," he said sharply. "Really, Lisbon. As though anything that old fraud could say could upset me."

She nodded as though to indicate her acceptance of his statement, but her eyes betrayed her. She didn't believe him.

He sighed. Really, she chose the most inconvenient times to be preternaturally perceptive. "She tried to do a reading on me," he said bitterly. He looked at Lisbon, who looked lost and uncertain, and debated the wisdom of proceeding. Really, there was no need for him to tell her this. They'd both be better off without such confidences between them. So he wasn't sure what compelled him to add, "She told me she spoke to my wife."

Lisbon looked aghast. "Oh my God."

He looked down. In for a penny. "She told me my wife told her to tell me our daughter never woke up that night. That she wasn't scared. That she didn't feel any pain."

"Jesus," Lisbon breathed.

"It's utter nonsense, of course," he said briskly, affecting an indifference he didn't remotely feel. "Total claptrap."

Lisbon's hand went to her cross. "Right," she said. "Of course."

"I can't believe I let her get under my skin like that," Jane said, furious with himself. "I mean, I know every trick in the book. I practically wrote the book."

Lisbon looked at him, her eyes dark and deep. "Do you believe her?" she asked simply.

"No," he said vehemently. "She's a liar and a fraud."

"But do you believe her?" Lisbon persisted.

He knew what she was asking. Not whether Kristina Frye had deceived him or not. That was irrelevant. She was asking whether he believed what she had told him was, in fact, the truth. A fine distinction, but a critical one.

"No," he said wearily. "No, I don't."

Lisbon nodded, but her mouth twisted in unhappiness.

"Part of me wishes I did, though," he added quietly, his heart heavy in his chest.

Lisbon wrapped her fingers around her cross. "Would you…" She swallowed. "Do you mind if I believe? For you, I mean. That what she said is true?"

He looked at her. "All right," he said at last. What harm could it do for at least one of them to carry that hope? He watched the line between her brows smooth out as her face relaxed infinitesimally in relief at the tacit acceptance of her faith in this instance. If between the two of them, they had one allotment of hope and faith, he was glad it was apportioned to her. She bore it so much better than he ever could. And… he found he liked the idea of Lisbon carrying this possibility as truth. If she believed it, in one plane of their shared universe, it would be true. He inhaled sharply. It was better than nothing. Besides, Lisbon was stronger than him. Maybe her part of the universe would win out over his, eventually.

Maybe someday he could believe, too.

"I'm sorry she upset you," Lisbon said quietly.

"I told you, she didn't upset me," he said automatically.

"Right," she said again, letting the blatant falsehood pass. "Of course."

He cut his eyes away from her. "It's just…been a long day."

She nudged him with her elbow. "Do you want me to make you some tea?"

He didn't want tea. He wanted her to go away. Her sympathy made everything feel more real. It made everything feel more. He didn't want to feel. He just wanted it to stop. "No, Lisbon."

"Okay," she said quietly.

He glanced over at her. "It was nice of you to offer, though."

She placed a hand on his shoulder. "I'll leave you alone," she said softly, squeezing his shoulder gently. He experienced a moment of insanity where he desperately wanted to turn into her and bury his face in her shirt. It seemed an excellent place to hide himself from the world. If he lost his senses and yielded to this impulse, would she lose hers and let her hand drift to stroke the curls at the back of his neck in a gesture of exquisite comfort? The thought was torturously tempting.

She let her hand slip from his shoulder and the moment passed.

Jane recalled himself. "The illustrious Ms. Frye did tell you that you would have your hands full with me, didn't she?" he said without humor.

She gave him a wry smile. "Well, she was certainly right about that, at least, wasn't she?"

"So it would seem," he agreed. Poor Lisbon. How long would she be cursed with that particular burden, he wondered.

She didn't seem to mind it, though. "I'll see you later," she said gently.

"See you," he echoed.

She left. He stared into space a few minutes more, then decided he truly was being a fool. He should never have let Kristina Frye interrupt his nap. He went back to his couch.

A cup of tea was waiting for him on the corner of the desk nearest his couch, a thread of steam curling up from its surface. Lisbon. Determined to take care of him, whether he wanted her to or not.

He didn't think he'd ever had a cup of tea made by Lisbon before. Curious, he picked it up and took a sip. He grimaced.

It was the worst cup of tea he'd ever tasted. She had put milk into green tea. Honestly. Also, she had over-steeped it. He was really going to have to take her tea education in hand one of these days. He curled his fingers around the steaming mug. Still, the heat of it seared his throat and warmed his chest from the inside out.

He drank it all down.