A/N: I hope you like the second chapter as much as I liked writing it! Thank you for reading and reviewing! It really makes my day.
Disclaimer: I seriously don't own it, never will. Oh well.
She's awake when he gets home. The living room is dark, but he can feel her presence. He never has to guess if she is in the room. There is something about her that his body responds to when she is in the room. Usually, he is thankful for her presence, right now though he wishes she was asleep. He stays facing the door for a few moments, trying to figure out what to tell her. The soft glow of a lamp illuminating the room forces him to turn around and look at her, to acknowledge her.
She is sitting on one end of the couch her legs tucked close underneath her. She is holding his cell phone in her hand a silent reminder of how she couldn't contact him. He finally looks her in the eye and he can tell she is beyond angry; she is livid. Yet, none of this surprises him. What surprises him is her attire. The only thing she is currently wearing is his button down shirt from yesterday. He distinctly remembers her going to bed in much more than that. In fact he remembers putting the shirt in the laundry.
He watches her as she studies him. Her eyes zero in on the blood that mars his pristine suit. Her eyes widen in horror and before he can even try to reassure her, she is standing in front of him. She has made quick work of relieving him of his coat and vest, her nimble fingers half way through the buttons on his shirt. He decides that it is in his best interest just to let her go, so he doesn't fight her. He doesn't help her either. His shirt soon joins the pile of bloody clothing on the floor.
He is left standing in front of her in his undershirt as she scans his body for injuries. His bandage peeks out from underneath the sleeve of his undershirt almost taunting him. She cautiously reaches her hand out and lightly touches the bandages before retracting quickly as if burned. He sees the worry etched in her features seconds before anger lights up her eyes.
"Go change," she says and turns her back to him so she can return to her perch on the couch.
"Teresa," he says, almost begs. He only wants to sleep. They can talk tomorrow in his opinion.
"Go change now Patrick." She wants to talk now. He gets half way across the room when her voice brings him back. "Get rid of those too," she commands. Her finger is extended out toward the pile of clothing at the entranceway. He doesn't comment on the slight shake of her hand. He can't really blame her. He wouldn't want to stare at a pile of her bloody clothing if he didn't have to.
He re-enters the room a few minutes later, once again in pajamas. He barely makes it into the room before she gets up again, this time to confront him. Her face is inches from his, and he resists the urge to kiss her. Now is not the time. Her anger is boiling just beneath the surface barely leashed. He knows why she is keeping it leashed, thankful she has the self control to not wake up the twins.
"Where the hell were you Patrick? Explain. Now," she says. It is a command, not a request. It is a command from his wife. He can deny Lisbon so many things, but he can't deny his wife anything. For some reason it makes sense to him even if the rest of the world is confused. She understands and that is all that really matters.
"I solved the case Teresa. The girl is safe," he says afraid to touch her.
"You solved the case and didn't tell me?" Lisbon sputters. He watches the disbelief cross her features. Lisbon is staring back at him in full cop mode. He really could have waited until morning at the office to hear this speech.
"I am the boss Jane. The boss. I have to approve everything. Hell, I approve if you are allowed to breathe or not. You do not make any calls in that office, or on that team. I decide what happens and when it happens. All information goes through me for a reason Jane. It goes through me because it is my job. What if something had happened? What if someone had died? You got hurt and that is enough paperwork. I can't have you screwing everything up Jane," she says in her "cop voice" as he fondly calls it.
It still fascinates him with how quickly she can change from Lisbon to Teresa. He watches as the anger dissipates into hurt, confusion, and worry. Her hand unconsciously twitches as she controls the urge to touch his bandage again. He realizes how serious his situation is at that moment. He can handle anything Lisbon throws at him, no matter how harsh. It is Teresa that he is afraid of; that he can't lose.
"Why do you always leave me in the dark Patrick? The not knowing is what kills me, but more importantly do you know what you could have done Patrick? You could have gotten me fired if anything happened. I have the health insurance Patrick. We need health insurance for the twins, for you. I had no idea where you were and now you come home bloody and bandaged. What am I supposed to think? What am I supposed to do?" She asks him. He hears her fighting to keep her voice steady.
"I didn't want to worry you," he says lamely. They both know that is not the truth, it is only a reason. She goes back to her original position and he is thankful to be able to sit on the recliner. He puts his head in his hands for a few seconds before he leans back. He is staring at the ceiling trying to find the correct words.
"I didn't know what to expect completely. I couldn't take the chance of both you and me getting hurt or killed. Who would take care of the kids? They need at least one parent," he says and waves his hand toward the stairs.
"That is not your choice to make Jane," Lisbon says sternly.
Teresa poses the next question, "Why risk yourself then?"
"Those girls needed me. There were ten of them locked in a crate and…," his explanation is cut short by a small hand, palm out, directed toward him. He can see her shaking. Lisbon is processing the information he has just supplied. She is angry that she missed the details, angry it took so long to find the girls, angry that he took this on himself instead of involving her.
When she finally looks up his wife is glaring at him. He puts his head in his hands again. He is tired. He knows what her next argument is going to be. He knows his doesn't hold a candle to her argument. He has always known; he just couldn't let those girls die.
"They need you Patrick," she says and looks to the stairs, "and so do I." The last part is said so quietly that he almost doesn't catch it. They have built their lives on a relationship that communicates through body language and touch. It is rare that they actually admit how much they mean to each other. A simple look or touch is all that is needed.
"What if you had died Patrick?" she whispers as she climbs into his lap. He leans back to give her more room and she gratefully takes it. She situates herself so that her head rests in the space between his neck and collar bone. He can feel her every breath tickling his neck. Her legs hang off the armrest of the chair as she attempts to get closer to him. She puts most of her weight against his uninjured right side and he wraps his arm around her shoulders. The hand from his injured arm rests against the top of her thighs. He takes a few deep breaths and uses her as the calming device that she naturally is.
"You would have been taken care of, as well as the kids," he says. He knows it isn't what she wants to hear. It is simply something to say to try and ease her fears. She relaxes slightly as his hand rubs up and down her arm in a soothing manner.
"Don't do this again Patrick," she whispers against his neck. She is drifting off to sleep faster than he expected her to. He feels her place a light kiss on the side of his neck. He doesn't respond to her statement. He just places a kiss to the top of her head. He knows this conversation isn't over. He still has to deal with Lisbon tomorrow and he knows that Teresa is still looking for answers. The thing is she needs rest, and he is the only place she can find it.