Thought of the day: Anyone else resorted to watching The Guardian for a Simon Baker fix? Jeeez he's so serious and pouty.
A/N: Getting to the good stuff now!
The hangover is brutal. Jane acts like nothing is wrong, and I am sullen, angry with him. Angry with myself.
The fingerprint results come back and sure enough, it's one of the Gallagher's. Not the one I expected though.
"So do you think she killed Redmond?" I ask Jane.
He shakes his head. "No, but I think she knew he was dead long before we told her. Let's go and see the lovely couple, shall we?"
"Fine, but can we just question them normally? I'm not in the mood for an intricate plot."
"I can tell," he says wryly. "You look positively green. Rough night?"
"Just a headache," I say, pouting. He raises his eyebrows but doesn't push me any farther.
"So, Mrs. Gallagher, would you like to tell us why you lied about being at James Redmond's house at the time of the murder?" Jane asks. I breathe a sigh of relief. I had almost expected him to hypnotize her.
"No, I was... I was here," the woman replies. The professor sits beside her, also looking shaken.
"That's strange, because we found your fingerprints on a knife at the crime scene, and it turns out the neighbours had a security camera that captured you. You may as well be honest with us."
The security camera bit is a lie, but the fingerprints alone don't give us enough evidence that she was there that night.
"I-" she looks at her husband. "Okay, I was there. But he was dead when I arrive, I swear."
Jane smiles over at me, then dramatically turns and points his finger at the professor.
"And that means your alibi is dead in the water, if we look at that security footage will we also see you there, Professor?"
The professor goes white.
"If you confess now, your cooperation will be noted," I tell him.
He stares at me for a while, then sighs. "I did it. I killed him. He was just going to leave, to run away. I didn't mean to, but I told him I loved him and he just laughed at me."
Mrs. Gallagher stared at him in horror. "You killed James? You did it? How could you. I loved him too!"
What the hell is going on, was this some sort of creepy polygamous thing? I look questioningly at Jane and he shrugs.
"You were going to kill him too!" Gallagher yells at his wife. "Why did you take the knife there otherwise? Don't you judge me woman. You drove him away, you smothered him. We could have been happy if you hadn't been so obsessed with him."
Mrs. Gallagher has her head in her hands and she is sobbing. I call for Cho and Rigsby to come in and take them down to the station.
Jane grins at me. "Voila."
"So they both thought the other one was covering for them?" I ask Jane.
"I guess so. Creepy, huh. I wonder if the old bat would have done it if her husband hadn't."
"Don't call her that, she's just sad and lonely." I tell him.
My phone rings as we turn onto the main road. It's Fischer.
"Where are you, Lisbon?" She asks.
"We've just left the Gallagher's place. What's up?"
"Two bodies have just been found at the bottom of a cliff at Pace Bend Park, could you go over there and take a look before they move the bodies?"
I look at Jane and mouth 'bodies'.
He groans. "Here I was thinking we'd get a break."
I silence him, and tell Fischer that we'll be there shortly.
"How many bodies?" Jane asks when I hang up the phone.
"Two," I reply.
"Ah. Can we get-"
"Yes we can get lunch on the way," I say to him, rolling my eyes.
"Very good, I know this great wee place around the corner..."
I let his voice float over me, my mind beginning to clear. All that is left from the fuzzy hangover of the morning is irritation at the man sitting beside me. God, I just want this day to be over.
We stand near the edge of the cliff. He takes a step forward and balks.
"Anything?" I ask.
"Not from up here," he replies.
"We have a team retrieving the bodies, we'll have to look at them back at the lab. May as well have a look around while we're here though."
He peers over the edge again, then settles a few feet further back. "Isn't it beautiful?"
"It's all right," I reply, looking at the dirt under my feet.
"You need to learn to appreciate the beauty in the world, Lisbon," he says. He grabs my hand and pulls me beside him. "Look."
I can't appreciate the ocean like he does, not right now. I'm distracted and still a little angry at him. As I wallow in self-pity and frustration, I realise that he is looking at me. I meet his eyes briefly, then turn away.
"I'm not going to go out with Kim again," he says finally.
I shrug and try to sound nonchalant. "Okay."
"She's not my type anyway," he continues.
"Oh yes, and what is your type?" I ask him, eyebrows raised. "Karen?"
He has an odd look on his face, I cannot read him. For a moment I think that he is going to be serious, but an impish smile breaks out on his face. "No need to be jealous, Lisbon. If you want to go on a date with me, you only have to ask."
"Bite me," I say, giving him a backhanded slap on the arm.
He grabs my hand and holds it against where I hit him, then he looks down at me, eyes earnest. "You're right, I couldn't date you. If we- if we ever..." he pauses, swallowing. His hand reaches up as if to touch my cheek, but he pulls it away. "I couldn't lose you."
I stare back at him, unable to break eye contact this time. My throat dries up at the look of pain on his face, and for a long time I cannot speak. Finally he drops my hand and walks a few steps forward, looking into the distance. I allow myself to step forward, and I take his hand in my own.
"No," I say to him, feeling oddly brave. "No, you couldn't lose me. You couldn't lose me even if you tried."
He looks down at me with a small smile and squeezes my hand, then looks back out to the ocean. And so we stand there, fingers intertwined, watching the waves, the gulls, the sky.
I'm not going anywhere, I think, trying to project it into his mind. Not without you.
We settle into a comfortable pattern over the next two days. When he teases me, I laugh, and when he flirts, I flirt too. Sometimes when we're talking he takes both my hands and smiles at me, and I smile back. It feels different, but not quite different enough. We don't speak of anything important, not to begin with, and I get the feeling that he needs a break from the intensity of the last week. I do too, but I remain agitated and confused.
On the third day, he is wearing a vest again. For some reason I am unsettled, and I find myself glancing over at him, trying to figure out what has changed. I know I should just ask, but by now I am tired of asking questions that never quite get answered, and I have no desire to frustrate myself any further.
After I return mid-morning with a coffee from the new stall down the road, I find him sitting at my desk. No one else is around.
"Saved you a spot," he says, patting his lap.
"You know what," I say. "I think I'd prefer the couch."
I lay down on the brown leather, shutting my eyes. I hear noise beside me, and he has knelt down by my head.
"Nice, huh?" he asks.
"I can certainly see why you like it," I reply.
"Well, it's a nice couch. It's an even nicer couch when you're on it," he says.
"Oh yes?"
"Yes. But you better get off it soon, because we've got a suspect to visit. Files are on your desk, no need to read them right now, I've already done that."
My eyes spring open and I jump to my feet.
He laughs. "Calm down, Lisbon. It only came through a few minutes ago. No need to panic, I've gone through all the details while you were slacking off getting coffee."
"Well we better go, are you coming?" I say.
He rises up with a groan. "Always in such a rush."
"Someone has to be," I reply.
The victims, twin girls, had been sliced open right up their abdomen.
"Clinical," Jane had said, grimacing at the bodies on the tables.
There had originally been very few suspects, apart from perhaps the parents, but they had an alibi. Our new suspect is a teenage boy, Forrest Chamberlain, whom Jane had spotted lingering around the cliffs the second time we visited the scene.
He has his parents with him in their dining room when we enter their house. We introduce ourselves briefly, and I take a seat at the table.
"So, Forrest, what was your relationship with Lucy and Harriet Grey?" I ask the boy.
He shrugs sullenly and doesn't meet my eye. "None really. They were pretty. I saw them around school. Very pretty."
The kid seems like a bit of a creep, but Jane is more interested in the photos around the room.
"Where's this?" he asks the parents. "Looks like a lovely spot."
"Bali, we went there a few years ago," the father replies. Jane puts the photo back on its stand and wanders into the next room. The parents watch him leave and I wave my hand dismissively at them.
"He's probably just getting a drink, don't mind him."
I hear the familiar sound of a kettle boiling and smile a little to myself.
"So, what do you want with my son?" the father asks me.
"We want Forrest to come in for questioning," I tell him. "You two can come, of course. Nothing to worry about, we just want to ask a few questions."
"There might be something to worry about," Jane's voice comes from the doorway. "Your kid is a little bit of a pervert, isn't he?"
"How dare you-" the mother starts, but Jane produces a pair of girl's panties from behind his back.
"You went in my room?" Forrest asks, face transformed with horror.
"Yes, I did. I like what you've done with the place. Very cool posters. Now where did you get these?"
He holds the panties in front of him with two fingers, looking both disgusted and pleased with himself.
"My son won't be saying anything else without a lawyer present," the father tells me.
On the drive back to headquarters I get another call from Fischer.
"Two more bodies," she says, her voice sounding tired and drawn. "Twins."
My stomach drops.
"A serial killer?" I ask.
"Certainly seems that way. Are you heading back?"
"Yes, the Chamberlain's are organizing a lawyer then they'll come in for questioning. We've got some girl's underwear that Jane found for forensics to test. Where are the new bodies, do you need us to go and look?"
She gives me directions and I hang up the phone. I look over at Jane and he has his eyes closed.
"Twins?" he asks, sounding nearly as weary as Fischer had.
"Yeah."
"This guy's a quick worker, four bodies in the space of a week. Doesn't seem like the work of a creepy teenager, does it?" he says.
"I don't know, Jane. Let's just go take a look."
Jane squats down beside the bodies. They are carved open like the Grey twins, a look of shock frozen on both their faces. The bodies are splayed out, but they are holding hands.
"Dominic and Darren Hall," I tell Jane, looking at the file that Fischer has handed me. He nods.
"So young," he says. The boys look no more than twelve, and when I look back at the file I see that I am right. Eleven years old.
I turn away from them, not able to look at their horrified expressions for any longer. I start to walk away, leaving Jane to examine them, but he calls me back. "Wait."
He is pointing at the opening in Darren's abdomen. "What's that?"
I call over Tom, the forensics investigator, and he carefully removes a plastic bag from inside the wound. He opens the bag and pulls out a note. Once he has read it, he looks up at Jane, his face pale.
"What?" Jane says. "What does it say."
Wordlessly, Tom turns the note around and shows it to us.
'Patrick, good to have you back. I never sent you my congratulations on catching Red John. Now let's see if you can catch me.'
Jane doesn't speak for the rest of the day. We get forensics to double check the Grey girls, but there was no other note inside either of them. I send Jane home, not able to bear looking at his exhausted face any longer. I sit at my desk, going over all the evidence that we have gathered so far, but it is hard to concentrate. Finally, I give up and go home, determined to get a decent night's sleep.
My phone rings at 3:15 am. My hands fumble around my nightstand until I find it, then I answer.
"It's me," Jane says at the other end.
"What's going on, Jane? It's the middle of the night."
"Can I come over?"
"No. God. I was fast asleep, can't this wait?"
"Please," he says. I can hear a hint of a smile in his voice.
"You're not going to let me sleep are you?" I ask.
"No," he laughs at the other end.
"Ugh, fine."
I brush my hair and throw a sweater over the top of my pajamas. Looking in the mirror, I think better of it, and change into some jeans and a T-shirt. I apply a little mascara and consider myself. How do you dress for a visitor at this hour? Not like this, try again Teresa.
I pull open my closet doors and rummage around, finally settling on a casual shirt. I leave the top three buttons undone and fluff my hair, then consult the mirror again. That'll do.
He is resting casually against the side of the door when I open it.
"Hi," he says, strolling into the room, looking around it like he's investigating a crime scene.
"What do you want? Is this about the note, because I-"
"I wanted to see you," he says. "Have you got any eggs?"
I sit down on my couch and watch him open cupboard doors and drawers in the kitchen.
"They're in the fridge," I say finally.
"Hmm. You're an 'eggs in the fridge' girl. Wouldn't have picked it."
He opens my fridge door and looks inside. I feel like he is reading my every secret from the contents and am unnerved. What do I have there? Milk? Is it past its expiry date? I don't remember.
"Scrambled?" He asks.
"Fine."
I get up and walk over to the counter. I sit at the bar stool and rest my elbows on the bench, head cradled in my hands.
"Why are you really here, Jane?" I ask with a sigh. He stops what he is doing and looks at me. I am sure he is not going to tell me, but his eyes soften and he lowers his eyes.
"I can't sleep." He shrugs. "And I was bored."
"So you decided to deprive me of my sleep too?"
He comes over and mirrors my position, leaning on the bench, chin in the palms of his hands.
"Yes, in fact. That was exactly my plan." He laughs a little then turns back to the eggs. But instead of cooking, he puts everything away and walks around behind me. He puts his hands on my shoulders and spins the bar stool around so that I am facing him.
"I'm sorry. I'm being selfish again. The eggs can wait until the morning if you really want to sleep."
I roll my eyes. "Well I'm awake now, do you want to go over case files? Tell me what you think about that note?"
"No, not really."
I am acutely aware that his hands are still on me. He bends down a little so his eyes are level with my own. He is sad, but his expression is readable for once and I feel my stomach flip.
"What did you mean when you said I couldn't lose you if I tried?"
I stare back at him, trying to quell my rising anger. This man is always playing games with me, messing with my mind. I don't know what he wants from me, and why he wants anything from me at all.
"I don't know, Jane," I say, standing up. I begin to pace around "What did you mean when you said you couldn't lose me? You were willing to run away from me when it suited you. I suppose now you're going to run off and catch this killer all on your own, I suppose you're going to take all this upon yourself and keep me in the dark again."
He follows me and once again puts his hands on my shoulders. I stop pacing. His hands move to my waist.
"Lets dance, I like dancing with you."
"You never answer my questions," I say. I know that I am visibly sulking but I don't care.
"And you never answer mine," he replies with a smile. "Dance?"
I don't want to dance with Jane. I don't want to be close to him. Not now.
"Fine," I say. Maybe he needs me, maybe I can help him.
He digs around in my CD collection and picks out something that I'm sure I've never listened to. It doesn't take long for my anger to melt away. It isn't like it is in the movies, dancing in your living room. It is slightly awkward, strange. How odd that it is easier to dance with an audience, with other people around, with other distractions. But his body moves with mine and his odd way of making me relax works, as it usually does.
He murmurs things to me as we dance, observations about my apartment. His voice is soothing, even when he teases me about my poor taste in furniture. My eyes are closed and I let my hand move up his back so that we are pressed tightly together. I let out a sigh, then am furious with myself for allowing him to hear.
"I meant that you are the one person that I couldn't bear losing," he says. "I thought it was obvious."
I stop dancing and pull back from him. I look up at him, full of unvoiced questions.
"It's not that obvious," I mumble back.
The look in his eyes is too much for me and I pull him back to me and start dancing again. This time our feet don't move, we just sway back and forth.
"You can sleep on the couch if you want, if it will help," I say finally. He laughs.
"I dunno, if you think it will help," I continue stupidly. He looks down at me. Then he kisses me on the forehead, his lips lingering on my skin. His eyes grow serious and he moves his arms to encircle my waist. Our bodies continue to sway to the music, and I move my arms around his neck. This is how I used to dance with the boys at high school dances, but it feels good now, here with him. He buries his face in my hair.
"It might help," he says, his voice muffled. "But I didn't come here to sleep."
I know that he can feel me tense up, and I hate him for being suggestive, even if he didn't mean it like that.
"You just came here to dance, then?" I ask. He kisses me on the forehead again and then nuzzles his face into my neck. It confuses me, all this affection. Am I just a convenience to him? Reliable? Someone that he knows will be there for him if he asks? Or is he truly rattled by that note.
"Something like that. You calm me, Teresa."
I wonder if this is true. I wonder how much pain he is in that he doesn't speak of. I wish I knew him like he knew me.
"Tell me," I say, not meaning to say it aloud.
"Tell you what?" He asks. I pull back from him yet again and for a while I am sure that I won't ask him, but I change my mind.
"Tell me why you're so sad, why you're here."
He lets go of me with one arm and spins me around so that he is holding me from behind. He lowers his head to my ear.
"I'm not sad now. That's why I'm here."
A riddle, avoiding the question yet again.
"Okay, Patrick. Okay." His name tastes foreign on my tongue. I won't push him. Maybe one day he'll find someone he can open up to. But it's clearly not me. I'm just a girl that he dances with in the middle of the night...
"You're not so much of an open book yourself," he murmurs into my ear. He's right, I guess. Maybe that's why we're not right for each other. We're closed off, unwilling to trust anyone. But he can read me, and I hate being at a disadvantage. So I am angry again. Unfairly, perhaps. I turn to face him.
"But you know me. You know what I'm thinking, what I'm feeling. It isn't fair."
He looks hurt, surprised. "No, Teresa. I can't. Not like you think. I don't know how you feel about..."
"Feel about what?" I narrow my eyes. Does he really not know? "How I feel about you?"
He pauses, then gives me a small smile. "Yes, I don't know how you feel about me."
"Then ask," I say. I challenge him with every ounce of my body. He looks afraid and he shakes his head. "No," he says. "No. I can't."
You won't, you mean. Would I tell him the answer if he did?
"Then go home, Patrick. Please. I'm sick of these games."
He shakes his head again. "No."
He moves towards me and I retreat.
"Stop," he says. My mind wants to disobey but my body freezes. He reaches me and takes my face in his hands. His lips are inches from mine and I start to shake a little.
"I won't ask. But I'll tell you something, if you like," he says, a small sad smile playing on his lips.
"Tell me," I breathe. His thumb slides along my lower lip, I shut my eyes. I won't move away from him, not this time.
"I can't lose you," he says.
"You already said-"
His lips brush mine and I want desperately for him to kiss me, kiss me properly, but when I open my eyes he has pulled back.
"I'm scared," he says. I shake my head.
"No. No you're not. You don't have to be." I cannot bear for him to leave now, to stop holding me. I know I sound crazy, desperate even."You don't have to be," I repeat, moving forward. His eyes are bright with moisture as he stares down at me.
"Teresa..." he breathes. Our eyes lock, his hand runs up my neck to my jawline and he smiles gently at me. "Don't you know by now?"
"Know what?" I ask, eyes shut, lips trembling. He doesn't speak. "Tell me, Patrick. You know I have feelings for you, so just tell me."
He laughs and my eyes spring open. I am about to start yelling at him again but he is holding me by the shoulders now.
"You have feelings for me? That's it? After all these years?" he says with a disbelieving smile. Oh for God's sake, what more does he want from me? I start to pout but he takes my face in his hands.
"Well, Teresa. I have feelings for you too."
"You do?" I ask, raising my eyes to meet his, my heart pounding.
"Yes. In fact, I think I'd go so far as to say that..." he stops and looks earnestly into my eyes, "that I love you."
My mouth opens and I stare up at him.
"I love you," he says again. He says it softly, simply. I search his face and then his lips meet mine. I kiss him back. My body goes numb for a moment, but then I am aware of every inch of myself, of his hands on my face, my neck. When it finally ends his eyes are gentle, but I know that mine are full of fear. He strokes my hair and presses his forehead to my own.
"It's not a game," he says. "Not with you."
He kisses me again, harder this time, I can feel that he needs me, but still I feel afraid. Do you mean it, Patrick?
When we move apart, he is smiling. It is a nice smile, not mischievous, no deceit. He holds out his hand for me and I take it. We move to the centre of the living room and he holds me and begins to dance with me again in silence.
Finally he says- "Do you still want me to leave?" He is looking down at me, forehead furrowed, not trying to hide his concern. I could never explain to him how much it means to me when his face is unmasked like this, but I know that he can see it in my expression, in my stupid grin.
"Guess," I say.
He laughs. "I wouldn't want to be presumptuous."
I shake my head slightly then lean into him, my head on his chest. "Did you mean it?"
He kisses me on the head and encircles me in his arms. "Would I lie to you?"
Very clever, Patrick. Always so clever.
