A/N: Thank you all for your reviews.

2012

Saturday, August 11

3:34 pm

"Where's the camera?" Grace's voice rang from across the hall.

"Over there," Lisbon pointed. "Next to that…thing."

"The party hat, my dear. The thing has a name."

"You knew what I meant."

Jane nodded, conceding her point over a mouthful of pretzels. "I did, but only because I was able to follow your wild gesticulations in its general direction. Poor Grace, however, possesses neither my skill at deduction nor the ability to see you from all the way in the kitchen."

Lisbon harrumphed.

Grace emerged from the kitchen and, with a sympathetic glance in Lisbon's direction, made to pick up the camcorder sitting next to the cone-shaped party hat.

"Okay, we're ready," she called over her shoulder.

Rigsby appeared, arms laden with a round chocolate cake frosted to look like a puppy's face. Cho followed behind him, a rare smile peeking around the edges of his lips as the cake was set in front of Rosie's wide eyes. He placed a single candle in what looked like the puppy's forehead and lit the match. The flame grew and was reflected in Rosie's blue eyes as they became ever more entranced with this bright light hovering in front of her.

"Wayne, make sure she doesn't touch it."

"She won't."

"Ok, ready? 1, 2, 3…"

The rather scraggly rendition of "Happy Birthday" was punctuated with a drum roll by Jane, playfully reluctant jazz hands by Lisbon on the urging of Jane's quirked eyebrows, quiet clapping by Cho, and a lunge by Rigsby to prevent his daughter from plunging her hands into the puppy's eyes. Van Pelt, whose hands were occupied with recording the whole affair, contented herself with a grin that spread across her entire face.

As the last wobbly note hung in the air, a tinny jingle joined the mix. Lisbon apologized and excused herself to the kitchen.

"Lisbon."

"Agent Lisbon? This is Officer Jason Calvin from Oakland PD…"

2013

Monday, May 13

3:20 pm

Amos Van Pelt stood under a potted tree in the corner of the Des Moines Airport lobby, eyes searching the crowds rushing in front of him, his faded blue ball cap the only fixed point in the blur of hair and cell phones and sunglasses.

The first thing Lisbon thought was how he almost drowned in the faded leather coat draped over his shoulders.

"Excuse me, sir? I'm…I'm Teresa Lisbon." She stumbled over the blank space where her title should have been. It was hard to define exactly what role she was playing here. For now, she was just Lisbon.

"Kimball Cho," was all the introduction Cho gave, though his eyes softened visibly.

The lines creasing the older man's face deepened as he shuffled his hands out of his pockets to shake those of his daughter's friends.

"I remember…from the wedding," he said. "I…thank you. Grace would…she'd like me to say…that is, I know she…" He sighed. "I'm sorry." A thin hand wove its way over the day's stubble.

Cho stepped closer. "How's she doing?"

"Still pretty out of it. Sleeps most of the time—painkillers they've got her on. She's got her…her arm in a cast. Got her on oxygen. But they say her stats are good, so that's good, I suppose." His eyes had become fixed on the underside of a green leaf hanging inches above his head. "My wife…it's always been her in that bed. And I guess it's just hard for her, you know…" Clearing his throat lightly, he brought himself back to the moment and met Lisbon's concerned gaze. "I'm sorry," he said, shifting his hat and replacing it over thinning grey hair. "You've all been sitting on a plane all day and I'm just standing here. I'm sure you want to get to the hotel."

"Actually, would it…can you take us to the hospital?"

Something odd sparked in his eyes as he registered Lisbon's request—grief and a hint of warmth.

"Of course."

2012

Saturday, August 11

4:20 pm

"Agent Lisbon?"

"Yes?"

The young officer looked uncomfortable in his current position as liaison between his CO and the head of a prestigious team from the CBI . "Does your team know the situation here?"

Raising an eyebrow, Lisbon replied, "Officer Calvin, I can assure you we are perfectly capable of handling whatever it is your boss is worried about. I'll—"

"No, Agent Lisbon—ma'am. I am sure your team is very capable. I just…You know we were asked to call you in?"

"The CBI?"

"No, I mean your team specifically." Calvin nodded toward the hospital's glass doors—all but obscured by emergency and media personnel. In the center of the swarming mass stood Cho and Rigsby, who appeared to be negotiating with a set of black-suited gentlemen.

Lisbon eyed the young man. "Why?"

"Well, I don't know all of the details, but the man that was killed—Dr. Jeremy Becker—was in some way associated with a case your team had been running down a while back. Something to do with a group called…Vitalize?" A flush crept up Calvin's neck as he fumbled with his notepad for the forgotten name.

"Visualize?" Lisbon slowed her pace, an edge in her voice.

"Yes, ma'am," Calvin said over a page of untidy notes.

Lisbon caught the officer's eye sharply. "Do you know the situation here?"

"Only that the Visualize case was yours, ma'am. And that that gentleman asked us to call you in."

Lisbon followed the young man's pointed finger back to the hospital's entrance. In the corner, under red lettering proclaiming "Emergency," stood a man speaking into a reporter's microphone. His tailored suit and manicured hair distinguished him from the government-issue crowd and Lisbon had a sinking feeling she knew what he was.

"Lawyer?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am. Ribb Carlisle. Dr. Becker was his client. They had a meeting this afternoon and Becker never showed. Carlisle came here to check on him and found Becker dead in his office."

Flipping through the file, Lisbon hesitated. "What does this have to do with Visualize?"

Calvin frowned. "Well, Becker was a member. And Carlisle said you would know how to handle it. Said you'd dealt with them before. I don't know why they need dealing with, but Carlisle seemed pretty riled."

Lisbon sighed. "Call your boss. Tell him to get down here. Bring a projector."

They had gotten the call a little over a year ago. A brutal killing of a young woman in Sausalito. Strangely, leads in the case were numerous and fruitful, eventually converging on a man named David Townsend. An open-and-shut, in every way: DNA, fingerprints, phone records, financials, all pointing to this one man. But, as Jane had continually interjected from his space on the couch, something felt "off." At first Lisbon wondered if she had been working with Jane for too long and had begun searching for the secret inside of a secret inside of a secret that would complicate a case that was, in reality, as simple as it looked. But she felt it too, whatever "it" was.

An hour before Townsend's arraignment, a call came from the DA's office. It appeared that there had been an interruption in the chain of evidence and a key piece of paperwork was missing. David Townsend would walk.

A grumble of displeasure issued from the crowd of local law enforcement officials who stood surrounding a dented blackboard.

Lisbon gripped a stubby piece of chalk between her fingers and continued to sketch the timeline of the case. She told them of the team's continued investigation into Townsend after it became obvious that his release had been orchestrated. She told them of a phone call to the county switchboard that led to a group called Visualize and their leader, Brett Stiles. She told them of the discovery that the young woman who was killed—Sofia Morrison—had worked as an intern for Visualize and was let go six months prior to her death. She told them of interviews with Stiles revealing little more than a man whose power and charismatic nonchalance were evidence of both his guilt and their inability to do anything about it.

What she did not say was that Jane had interviewed Stiles too, in his usual fashion. That, instead of putting on a face of indignant innocence or righteous anger, Stiles had pushed right back with knowledge that should not have been in his possession—knowledge of Red John and his dealings. That Jane's chiseled smile did not reach his eyes. That he was looking at Stiles as a fox would a rabbit. That, before they could make a move, the rabbit disappeared into a hole of politics and bureaucracy and corporate smoke and mirrors. That Jane had probably not slept since.

2013

Monday, May 13

4:18 pm

Cho moved the glass of orange juice out of Rosie's reach for a third time.

"Why sleeping?" Rosie questioned once more, pointing a small finger at her mother over the hospital-issue bedside table.

This time, it was Rosie's grandfather who answered.

"She's just tired, pumpkin. She's taking a nap."

"Wakeup?"

The elder Van Pelt shook his head. "Not right now. Maybe tomorrow." He stepped closer to the upholstered chair where Rosie sat on Cho's lap. "Hey, let's give these nice people a break. What about we go see Grandma upstairs? Is that ok?"

The question was as much addressed to the team as it was to Rosie. Consent was given in the form of three nods and the little girl was carried out of the room. It felt as if a bit of air was carried out with her.

Jane shut the blinds.

2012

Monday, August 13

10:23 am

The red-tinged iron of the bridge towers flashed through the window as Lisbon sped down the road. Jane stole a glance across the van. Yep. Definitely still angry.

He took a breath. "The important thing is that now we know Sofia Morrison called Becker before she died. The cases are connected. Maybe—"

Lisbon's eyes flashed. "No, Jane. The important thing is that you just pissed off a lawyer. A very powerful lawyer."

Jane waved his hand dismissively, leaning back into the passenger's seat. "Meh. He was taking too long. My way was faster."

"And illegal."

"But it —"

"But nothing." Lisbon sighed sharply at the windshield, her grip tightening on the steering wheel. "Jane, I told you we were coming. I told you we had a warrant. I told you to wait to go in to the restaurant until we got there. Maybe I could understand if there were no other way. But we had the warrant. Why couldn't you just…dammit, Jane—you had to be right. You had to prove something. And now nothing is admissible. He could walk again. Do you know that?"

Jane eyed her indignantly. "Would you calm down, woman? Everything's going to be fine."

"You don't know that. You do not know that."

He held up his hand in appeal. "Just trust me. It'll be fine."

Lisbon's voice dropped an octave. "And do you trust me, Jane?"

Jane was silent as the car rolled to a stop under a red light.

"Don't say you do."

2013

Monday, May 13

10:46 pm

Steam clouded the wall-length mirror. In it, the hazy green of the shower curtain hung behind the darker streak of Lisbon's still-damp hair. The snarl of the hotel-grade hair dryer ground against her already frayed composure, but at least it masked the dull roar of the jets that flirted with the sound barrier only a few hundred yards away, ticking by five-minute intervals like an atomic clock.

A squeak sounded above the roar and Lisbon turned anxiously toward the plastic box that housed the dryer's electrical circuits, but saw nothing. The noise persisted and Lisbon realized in a haze of cluttered thoughts that it came from outside the bathroom door—more specifically, from the bedroom.

The dryer clattered against the tile as Lisbon struggled to disentangle herself from the nest of towels at her feet.

The little girl sat in front of the television, breath coming in high-pitched gasps as she cried.

"Hey Posey, what's wrong?" Lisbon scooped Rosie up and sat with her on the bed. Everything in the room seemed to close in on itself—the bed within two feet of the TV within two feet of the table within two feet of the door—like it was made to be folded up and packed away. The abstract flower print creaked under their weight. Lisbon smoothed Rosie's bangs from her forehead, but thin wisps still clung to her tear-streaked cheeks. The little grey lamb slipped out of her small hands and landed in a heap on the floor.

Rosie hiccupped. "The daddy died," she squeaked between jagged breaths that shook her whole body.

Lisbon let her attention be drawn to the television screen where a cartoon lion cub lay sprawled against a wide expanse of desert. Buzzards circled above him, ready to land on what they thought was a dead body. Her mind wandered to a summer day in a crowded movie theater, her ten-year-old brother clinging desperately to her hand across the bag of popcorn he had promised to share. She realized what Rosie must have seen and, for some reason, it scared her.

"The daddy died," Rosie said again.

"Shhh," Lisbon said, as much to comfort Rosie as to give herself time to drum up a speech about death mild enough to give to a toddler. It was funny, though. The only words coming immediately to mind were 'I'm sorry for your loss,' which, on a basic level, were entirely inappropriate for the situation. She wondered at how easily they rolled off her tongue, as if she were ordering a morning coffee rather than comforting a family. And she wondered if that's all it was to her any more, a routine. A routine of death that had become so numbingly regular that none of it really hit them anymore. She sighed. But then things happen, and all of the sudden, death is so very real.

She wrapped her arms more tightly around Rosie's shoulders as the little girl rested her sticky cheek against her chest. "You know what, though, Posey?"

Rosie raised her eyes to Lisbon's.

"You know what?" Lisbon repeated, leaning down to retrieve the lamb. "The daddy died to save Simba. So that the other animals wouldn't hurt him. He was very brave."

Rosie gave a shuddering sigh as Lisbon pressed a kiss to her temple. "OK."

Lisbon let her eyes drift from the small fist wrapped around her shoulder strap to the white streaks of the city lights outside her window and wished her own fears—everything—would dissolve away as easily.

2012

Tuesday, August 14

2:53 pm

"Sir?"

"Lisbon?"

"I just wanted to let you know Cho and Van Pelt are on their way to get Townsend." Hands in her pockets, Lisbon stepped resolutely in front of Minelli's desk. "He won't walk this time."

"Despite Jane's efforts to allow him to do so."

Lisbon grimaced. "Yes, sir. But I promise it won't—"

"'—happen again.' Yes, Lisbon. I know."Minelli regarded her over the thin metal rims of his glasses, fingertips resting on a file. He sighed, a strange look coming over his face as he attempted to keep his stern demeanor from slipping into one of disgruntled amusement. "You were able to use the phone records?"

"Not exactly."Lisbon rocked back on her heels, avoiding Minelli's eyes. "Thanks to Jane, the records from the pay phone in the restaurant where Sofia Morrison worked are technically inadmissible...so we backtracked and tried to find another record of their connection. She used to serve him coffee almost every morning, so it was just a matter of getting enough witness statements. Considering the acquaintances they had in common, whatever she told him might have been the same thing that got him killed and probably by the same person—actually, it was Van Pelt who found the record of—"

Minelli held up his hand. "You got the guy?"

Lisbon nodded. "Yes."

"That's all I need to know. Thank you, Agent Lisbon." He inclined his head. "Now get out of here before I change my mind and have Jane's ass outside juggling office supplies for department funding. God knows I could use the laugh—and the money."

Lisbon suppressed the beginnings of a grin.

2013

Tuesday, May 14

1:14 am

The clock winked another minute past. Lisbon's dazed mind couldn't seem to detach itself from the gentle whirring of the air conditioning unit or the rhythmic motion of the curtains as they swelled with the current. She watched, half-conscious, as the hems rippled out from the wall in gentle waves, lighter linen ghosting through a small partition in heavier drapes.

A quiet knocking startled her just enough to pull her fully awake. Slowly pushing back the sheets, she padded her way to the door, peered out, and opened it to reveal Jane—all rumpled vest and weary eyes—holding two steaming paper cups of tea and looking as tired as she had ever seen him.

Wordlessly, she let him slip past her into the still-dark room. The door closed behind them, the sliver of light from the hallway narrowing and finally disappearing altogether.

Jane lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, eyes drifting unconsciously across the wall and eventually coming to rest in the far corner where a small hand was just visible through the mesh of a portable crib.

He felt the pull of the mattress as Lisbon settled next to him. The tea sloshed a little against the sides of the cups, and he waited until the liquid had stilled to place one in her hands. He stared into the steaming cup, closing his eyes as he tried to memorize the sound of the quiet suspended between them because, for a reason he couldn't quite place, he felt safe in that moment.

The filtered moonlight traced the outline of Lisbon's face against the dark space, like a child's chalk drawings on the pavement. She looked ethereal, like an imprint of a dream on his mind seconds after waking; like something he could forget if he didn't choose to remember, like something that, while ever so real to him now, would disappear in the daylight.

The traffic outside sounded like an ocean.

2012

Tuesday, August 14

4:44 pm

Jane leaned back against the worn leather headrest of his couch and sighed. The case was closed. They had gotten Townsend, despite his purported "pissing off" of Ribb Carlisle. Really, Lisbon had overreacted. So, perhaps his expediting of their access to Mick's Diner's phone records was slightly illegal. Ok, so more than slightly. But, the place needed a new security system anyway. And, in the end, it had all turned out in favor of Carlisle's former client. He really had nothing to be so cross about.

Jane folded his hands across his vest. If it weren't for him and his suggestion that they look into that strange call to Becker's phone, they wouldn't have found a connection between Becker and Sofia. A connection that essentially cracked the case wide open and led them back to Visualize and Townsend. A victory lap, of sorts. This time, Townsend wouldn't walk. And, if it weren't for him they wouldn't have found Townsend's location and been on the way to pick him up right now. Then where would they be? Nowhere, that's where.

Crossing his arms petulantly, he concluded that Lisbon had indeed overreacted and made up his mind to tell her so. In fact there she was, coming down the hall.

He shifted to a sitting position and waited for her to enter the bullpen.

"Van Pelt?" Lisbon spoke into her phone. Jane decided he would be the bigger man and let her finish her conversation before accosting her.

"Grace, slow down…shot who?...Ok. We'll be there as soon as possible." She hung up. "Dammit. Who are these people?"

Jane, who stood up from his couch at the word "shot," forgot his resolution and strode over to Lisbon. "Everybody okay?"

Lisbon matched his confused gaze. "They shot Townsend."

"Who, Cho?"

"No, no. They were at a light and someone shot through the window." She stepped toward her office. "PD's on the scene. Get Rigsby and meet me at the van."

It took Jane a moment to remember where his feet were.

"You coming, Jane?"