I give up. I can't seem to make everything fit into the one chapter, once again, so I won't try. I won't make plans or promises about how the next chapters unfold. The characters seem to withhold their intentions until I am utterly frustrated, and then do whatever they will regardless of my expectations. The characters are so clearly not mine. And of course I don't make money from them. If anyone is still reading this story, I'd very much like to know if it is still worth completing, or if I've made a complete hash of it. Between my anxiety about Wednesday's show and my own real life challenges, I don't feel that my own perspective on the subject is clear. But I feel that I must give my readers something, since you have been patiently waiting so long.

Chapter 11: Confession

The wide window of Dennis Abbott's office gives me a view of the world outside, as the day darkens, hiding its troubles. I stand with my back to the bright, brisk efficiency of the FBI headquarters, shutting it all out as I breathe, regaining my sense of reason.

Emotional responses get in the way of clear thinking. So as I focus on controlling my breathing, my heart rate, the tension building in my neck and back, I soothe away the anger, the hurt, and the fear that has clouded my judgment and dulled my awareness and thinking. I make an effort to think more than feel. This was a common practice when I was hunting Red John. It makes me feel less human. At this moment, that's fine with me. Humanity is overrated.

It's a small thing, I tell myself. Lisbon can handle an interrogation with one penny ante criminal without me there to run interference. I got all worked up over nothing. In the grand scheme of things, didn't I get everything else exactly as I planned it?

Didn't we solve a case that had baffled the art squad for over two years in less than two weeks? Didn't I show Abbott that things go more smoothly when he doesn't try to micromanage me? Didn't I build our team's reputation and influence within the FBI? It was fun. It was exciting. It was a tour de force that showed what I could do, and gave everyone on the team a chance to explore what they could do, too. And the painting that Sylvia Hennigan lost, the one link to her dead husband, has been recovered. I had planned to let Lisbon help me return it. Now I think I'll just do it myself. I don't need her.

I have everything under control.

So why does it feel like such a hollow victory?

A movement from behind me makes me aware of my surroundings, aware that my mind has been wandering somewhere. Trying to escape... what?

I don't turn, but I know that it is Dennis Abbott moving shuffling paperwork, moving items in and around his desk. Not trying to get my attention, but not trying to avoid it, either. Almost seeming cheerful. This irritates me more than it should. Which is part of why I don't turn around. I act as if the office is mine, and he is the intruder that I tolerate.

And this affects his mood little, if at all. Is he... humming?

His high spirits irk me. I know that he has been suitably impressed by the success of this case. The rigidity and authoritarian bluster that had been impeding our working relationship have been worn down. Up until a few minutes ago, it seemed that he had finally figured out who was really in charge, and that he had decided that he didn't mind. Very sensible of him.

Except that apparently the one in control isn't me after all. Not when it counts most.

My anger, barely subdued moments ago, flares again. But the blaze is more focused, now. It can be directed as I choose, rather than consuming me. And I choose to direct it at the man who just thwarted my efforts to protect Teresa Lisbon.

I review my plots to make him pay. Which approach would bother him most? Embarrass him to his superiors? Mess with his personal life? Small, untraceable inconveniences to amuse the office at large and get under his skin? Just stop applying my brilliance to our cases and let his precious team flounder? Some combination of these?

Or I could just disappear. That would do it. Leave him holding the bag, with nothing to show for his efforts to assemble the top team in law enforcement. Shatter his dreams. Show him for the sad, pathetic failure he would be without me.

It worked with my Dad, after all. The man was dead within a year after Angela and I took off. Rough living, carelessness... it was his own fault. He didn't realize how he had come to depend on me, how much his own puppet had been pulling his strings. He didn't know that I was the one keeping him alive from the time I was 11. He didn't realize that I had been keeping the act going even before that, in spite of his neglect, his casual cruelty, his manipulation and selfishness and arrogance and...

"Are you coming, Jane?"

Abbott's voice is calm, almost gentle. I don't turn around. I wonder if he could see the tension in my shoulders, my neck and jaw. I can still feel it, and Abbott's people reading skills are above average, whatever his other flaws. "Coming where?"

"To observe the interrogation. Just because Pulaski requested to speak to Teresa alone doesn't mean we can't listen in."

There is a sullen impulse pulling at my gut that wants to quash the eddy of curiosity bubbling up. I am surprised at myself. Ordinarily, I would have found my way to the observation room already, with or without official sanction. Instead I have been brooding and plotting. I thought that I had left that behind with the corpse of Red John. As I once left it behind with my father's act.

"Won't that interfere with Pulaski's newfound conscience?" Light, flippant, unconcerned. I pretend that I couldn't care less how the interrogation turns out. I almost convince myself.

"What Pulaski doesn't know won't hurt him." From the light reflecting in the office window, I can see his shape tentatively approaching me. Almost as if he thinks I need comfort. But he wisely restrains himself from putting a hand on me. He hovers at my shoulder, rocking subtly on the balls of his feet. "Besides, I hate to miss an opportunity to watch Lisbon at work. When she has passion for her mission, she can be formidable." The warmth of the smile in his voice grates on my nerves. He is trying distract me from my petulance. A part of me knows that I am sulking, and feels slightly ashamed of my adolescent behavior. Especially since he is right. When Lisbon gets on a roll, when she has a suspect in her sights, she is something to see. A force of nature. I feel a slight nudge of pride in her, in spite of my strong reservations.

He's deliberately praising Lisbon to win my approval, my own cold inner voice whispers. I keep my face to the darkness outside.

"Thank you, by the way."

I turn to look at him, hoping he sees the wariness more than the surprise. In all my years if working with law enforcement, I have never heard those words from a supervisor in such a sincere, unguarded voice. Only Lisbon has ever used anything like that tone. Has ever voiced any sort of appreciation, grudging though it usually is, of what I do and how well I do it. Survivors, victims, family members... they sometimes express thanks like this. But from them it is superfluous. What I do is insufficient to bring back loved ones, to heal their hurts. Getting them justice is the least I can do. They owe me nothing.

But the muckety-mucks do owe me. They take my talents and use it to fuel their own prestige, stoke the fires of their own egos, building their careers on my efforts. None of them seem to realize how much they depend on my cooperation. Except, perhaps for the moment, Dennis Abbott.

What brought this on, I wonder. "For what are you thanking me, exactly?"

Abbott shakes his head. "Not sure where to start." He, too, is looking out the window, avoiding the direct eye contact. Then his gaze wanders his office again before alighting on the colorful item on his desk. It wasn't there before Lisbon left. I recognize it as the toy I bought him some time ago. The one he hides in a drawer but takes out every so often when he thinks nobody is watching. He steps towards it, picks it up, still avoiding my eyes. "Actually, this is a good place to begin. I never told you how much I appreciated the gift."

I shake my head with a feigned smile, concealing my impatience. "You said thank you, and I told you it was nothing..."

"And I neglected to tell you that it was far from nothing." His emphatic interruption is not like his usual brusque, professional manner. There is a raw emotional intensity that he usually avoids in a professional setting. The only setting in which I have been able to observe him directly. "When I was a kid, I wanted this so badly, but I never got one. My Dad...he never withheld anything I needed, worked hard to make sure my brother and sisters and I could succeed. But I never asked him for a Voltron action figure. I thought he would consider it frivolous." He shook his head, a look of genuine sorrow overtaking his face. "When he died, I realized how much I left unsaid between us. How much I never received from him because I never asked. I think if he had known how important it was to me, he would have made sure that I got it..."

I raise my eyebrows. I had known when I bought it that this would be it, the one item that Dennis wanted as a child that he couldn't have. I knew it would help him to relax, feel understood. Make him more willing to bend, to play nice with me. I hadn't guessed that he would feel that it connected him with his long dead father. But then, Abbott has fewer father issues than any man I ever met. The worst part for him is missing the loving, trusting relationship he had relied upon all his life. He has few regrets for missed opportunities. No barriers of unforgiven trespasses on either side. He never wonders if his Dad would be proud of him. He already knows.

But now, never one to dwell on the personal, Abbott moves on to other matters. "And then, there's this case. You know it was a gamble for me. If things had gone poorly, it would have been more visible, more embarrassing for me than one of our typical cases. But I knew that a success would build bridges, open opportunities for us that would be hard to come by otherwise." He clears his throat. "I admit that in spite of your track record, I had my doubts." A sign of honesty. I knew from his reactions how reluctant he was to trust me with his reputation. Yet he did. "You came through in ways I never could have imagined. Not only did you get us hard evidence on a murderer and his accomplices, you did it in a way that made everyone involved look good." He fairly beams at me. "And I have to say, between us, I haven't had so much fun working a case in... well, maybe ever."

I give a lopsided shrug, the one I save for pretending modesty to "superiors", and duck my head in that unassuming way that puts people off their guard. But he doesn't seem to register it, doesn't leave time for me to wave it off magnanimously. He's building to something. A... confession.

He plows on. "But the biggest thing I have to thank you for is our team. This... this fine group of people we work with is like... well, it's a dream come true for me. An answer to prayer. I thought that I was building it, that I was the mastermind putting it all together. But without you, this couldn't have come together so well. And I'm not just talking about how you close cases."

He looks me full in the face for a brief moment, then loses nerve, looking out the window again. He doesn't like to make himself vulnerable, least of all to me. He doesn't fully trust me, even still. But he wants to. So he plunges forcefully ahead. "If you hadn't insisted on working with Agent Lisbon, she never would have worked with me. There was too much anger over what happened with the CBI. Without you running away on that first case, I wouldn't have discovered what Agent Wylie could do. And he keeps surprising me all the time, in part because he watches you, learns from you, every chance he gets. If you hadn't agreed to come back with me in the first place, this team could never have accomplished a tenth of what we have done. Cho has always been an outstanding agent, but it amazes me how smoothly someone so disciplined can work with your level of insanity." He stifles a smile. "No offense." He doesn't pause long enough for a verbal acknowledgment. "And as for Agent Fischer, she really needed the challenge of a team that would stand out. She may act irritated when you do things we don't expect. But she knows that thinking outside the box makes this team more effective. A little occasional discomfort is worth it if it can make her a better leader." I catch in his fleeting glance that this is no small matter to him. Kim's growth and success is important to him. I wonder why.

His voice lowers, becoming soft and grave. "And...she isn't the only one. Evidently, I needed to be knocked out of my comfort zone, too. I was so used to being the boss, making the rules, setting the agenda... I forgot that to make an exceptional team, you need more than a strong leader." His apologetic look and tone agree, as he continues. "When I set out to secure your services, I thought I could keep you under control. Minimize the negative effects that go with your chaotic approach to solving cases." He gives a wry smile. "I might as well have tried to harness the wind. It took me a long time to realize that some things can't be controlled, you just have to go with it."

He forces himself to look at me directly. When dealing with such sensitive subject matter, this costs him more effort than usual. But there is no denying the depth of his conviction. "I'm a better leader... a better man than I used to be. Before you came. I had to change and grow because of you. I had to try things that scared me, adjust to approaches that went against the grain, and trust you when your crazy schemes didn't make sense. It's not easy to admit to myself that trying to force you into my mold would never work, that I still have so much to learn. But I am so grateful that you are not someone I can control. I'm glad that you're only here because you choose to be, not because I forced your hand." He looks back out the window, a wistful expression overtaking his usually stern face. "And if you disappeared tomorrow, I would still be glad for the chance that I've had to work with you. You are one amazing individual. I'm proud...grateful... to be on your team."

I find myself speechless. There had been hints of a change in attitude towards me over the course of this case, but I had not fully grasped the depth of his regard. He is not a man who likes to show his feelings, and he's pretty good at hiding. For him to let down his guard like this, so unexpectedly, makes me a bit uncomfortable. He can't know that I was just planning to make his life a misery out of petty spite. He never saw the full extent of my resentment towards him, for ending my association with Lisbon and the others, for his barely effectual conniving that fettered me for weeks...months. Years. He was the factor I was most worried about, coming back to the states. One major reason that I didn't just go back and find Lisbon myself after the main trouble blew over. He was just smart enough to make it difficult.

Turns out he was even smarter than I realized.

"Of course, I'd have to come after you," he continues, in a more casual tone which doesn't fool me. He sees my discomfort and he's trying to lighten the mood. "It's my job after all. And you would lead me a merry chase. And I would never catch you unless you wanted to be caught. Which is exactly as it should be. But don't ever tell anybody that I said so, and maybe I can give up sooner." And he winks and claps me on the shoulder, moving briskly towards the door. "Meanwhile, if you wish to get front row seats with me for Lisbon vs. Pulaski, I'm buying the popcorn."

I blink and swallow. Why is my throat so tight?

He doesn't look back to see if I'm following him. The colorful action figure still stands on the desk, in full view of anyone who might walk by. I feel a momentary urge to put it away for him, just in case one of his superiors is still in the building. Unlikely, but possible, given the attention this operation has generated. But I decide against it. He had a reason for taking it out. It might have been more than a prop for his confession.

Reaching for my tea cup, I reflect on Abbott's words and my reaction. He is a man with some hidden depths, beneath his tough, stern, masterful facade. Clearly he has been thinking about what he told me tonight for some time. But his delivery wasn't carefully planned out. It wasn't some polished performance. He meant every word. If he had an agenda beyond expressing genuine appreciation, he had put little thought into its execution.

The tea is lukewarm against my lips. I grimace. Too much time arguing when I should have been relaxing into our victory. I'll need to brew a fresh cup if I'm going to make it through the ordeal to come. Abbott will understand if I take an extra moment. No need to let him see the full impact of his little speech. Not before I process the influence of my emotional responses.

Passing by the interrogation room on my way to the break room, I am surprised to see the door of the observation room standing open. Cho has just given up his chair to Abbott, and is carefully making his way out of a room filled to its capacity with agents. I see Pike, Searles, and Fischer making space for him to pass, while their eyes are riveted on the scene on the other side of the one way glass.

Standing room only. I wonder what's so fascinating in the interview so far.

It would serve Lisbon right if they were all listening to Pulaski's dramatic confession of love. But if that were the case, Cho would have been out of there long ago.

I slow my steps just enough that Cho catches up with me effortlessly, then fall into step with him.

"So do we have enough to get a conviction yet?" My suspicion is that he will have attempted some more personal inquiries of his own before he gets down to business.

"Enough to convict McKay and every member of his team many times over." Cho's enthusiasm breaks through his usual deadpan demeanor. "When I left, Pulaski was in the middle of a very detailed description of every interaction he ever had with McKay. Every plan, every heist, every member of his team. Dates, times, places, contacts, buyers. Some stuff that took Searles and Pike completely by surprise. The man has an impressive memory."

I find myself taken aback. "What sort of deal did she offer him?"

"She didn't have to offer anything. Pulaski took one look at Lisbon and just started to spill his guts." Cho shakes his head, bemused. He turns into the break room with me, starts checking the cupboards. He is looking at how many paper plates and cups are available. Planning a celebration. I get fresh water and a tea bag, going through my typical routine as I focus on Cho's words. "He has information we would have no other way of getting. Doesn't even seem to care how much he incriminates himself. So far, it all fits with information that the art squad had already gathered, so Searles and Pike figure if the new leads pan out, they could be getting millions worth of art back, and possibly more than 20 arrests. That's just with what he's told us so far. Could mean big promotions for both of them."

For Cho, this flow of information is downright chatty. Successes this big put him in a rare mood. Perhaps I could even get some further details from him, of the kind he usually is reluctant to share. "Why isn't Wylie watching? He was the one who insisted that this would be the best way to get a confession out of Pulaski."

A shrug, as he opens a big package of napkins. "He asked Lisbon if he could go in with her. Said he rarely got up close and personal for interrogations. Needs the experience."

I don't need to read Wylie to know that those were not his real reasons for sitting in with Lisbon. Much as Wylie wants to be a tough agent who can stare down bad guys, he is still very nervous around most criminals and suspects. He would rather observe them from a distance via video signals. But this time he figured I might feel better about the interview if Lisbon wasn't in there alone. And of all the principal team members, he was the only one that would have no negative associations for Pulaski. Not being me, he could frame his request in a humble, non-assuming way. And Lisbon willingly agreed.

My curiosity duly piqued, I take out a few bills from my wallet and hand them to Cho before carrying my teacup towards the door. "My contribution to the case-closed pizza," I call over my shoulder, not needing to see his puzzled look, or the understated smile that acknowledges my awareness of his intent.

It's time to find out if Aaron Pulaski can truly craft a confession as surprising as Dennis Abbott's.