3. WHATEVER IT TAKES

Over the next week, the team visited Lisbon regularly in the hospital. Against hospital rules, Jane came at night and stayed while she lay in a drug-induced sleep, dozing in a recliner he dragged in from the ICU waiting room, gone before the nurses made early rounds in the morning. At first, she had been hurt in a resigned way, thinking he wasn't visiting her. But after the third night, he left the chair in the room as evidence that he had been there. She seemed to be able to rest better after that.

Thankfully, her jaw wasn't broken, just dislocated. Bruises on her front and back were matched to the points of the boots the father and son were wearing. Her entire torso had to be tightly taped to allow the three broken ribs to heal. The doctors said the bruised ones would give her more trouble. Surgery was required to repair her left wrist. It had been broken as they snapped the manacle over it the first day and was left unattended during her ordeal. They never referred to it as her captivity.

Finally, she was allowed to go home. Grace went with her, just to stay for a few days until she could take care of herself. Hightower had insisted she take at least a full month of medical leave-after she rescinded the suspension. Jane never told anyone that he had been startled to wakefulness one night at the hospital to find Hightower standing on the other side of Lisbon's bed, staring down at her with a look he recognized as self-recrimination. How Madeleine thought any of this could have been her fault, he didn't know, but he knew that look well enough.

Lisbon had been home for two days, and he knew Grace intended to come to work that day, and while he knew it really wasn't his place or his business to do so, he let his car take him to Marie's early in the morning to buy two donuts and one bear claw. Then the stubborn vehicle carried him—against his own better judgment—to her apartment. He didn't know who or what to blame for making him actually walk to the front door and ring the bell.

"Thank God you're here."

It was as if Grace expected him. He hadn't called first; why would she expect him? She took hold of the front of his suit and pulled him through the door, shutting it behind him so quickly he didn't know if it was to keep something out or keep him from escaping. She frowned down at the donut bag and thought aloud, "She was craving Marie's yesterday."

She looked back up at his face, smiling quizzically at him. She wondered how he knew. He wasn't sure how—he just always did. He looked at her, waiting for her to spill. It didn't take long. She looked toward the top of the stairs then brought her face to within inches of his. Her voice was low and urgent.

"She won't—I don't think she can . . ."

She frowned again, looking down, shaking her head, searching for the words. She looked back up at the stairs. Then back to him. That thing in her head that helped her be tactful was shut off.

"Look. Have you ever been able to get her to talk to you?"

"I get her to talk all of the time." What kind of question was that?

"I don't mean the silly, stupid, stuff. I'm not talking about banter or flirting—"

"Flirting?"

"—or your usual crap. Have you ever gotten her to really talk?" She looked like she was willing to hurt him if he didn't take this seriously. And he did. He thought hard, combing through every conversation they'd ever had at light speed. The truth sort of hurt. She had managed to sidestep nearly every serious conversation he had ever attempted while she had subtly been able to draw him out more than a time or two. He had talked to her without really accomplishing the opposite.

"Not so much."

She closed her eyes and lowered her head in disappointment.

"I've rarely found it necessary." He knew it was childish, but he didn't want her to know he had tried and simply not succeeded.

"Well, find it necessary now." She snarled at him. He was right when he had once told Grace she knew how to be a bitch if she'd only let herself. A door opened somewhere upstairs, and she released the hold she had taken of his shirt front. One deep breath, and the light optimistic smile she usually wore slid onto her features.

They both turned to the stairs as Lisbon dragged herself down their length. When she reached the bottom, Grace greeted her, the fake cheer in her voice just light enough to not sound cloying.

"Hey, Boss, look who's here!"

Lisbon raised her head, body suddenly tense with apprehension. She looked at Jane, calculating something—he wasn't sure what. He raised the bag of donuts level with his head and shook it twice. She relaxed and walked toward where they stood just in front of the kitchen doorway, stopping about five feet away. Grace moved away and Jane slid in the opposite direction, following her lead. Lisbon walked slowly between them, taking the bag from Jane's outstretched hand, and moved to the coffee maker.

"I'm going to work. Jane's going to stay a while. Okay, Boss?"

Lisbon didn't pause in her movements and didn't turn, only offering a partial shrug. Jane looked at Grace, an excuse on his lips, quiet panic rising in his throat. Before he could get a word out, she closed the gap between them, taking that threatening hold on his shirt once more. Her voice was low and menacing. Where had she been hiding that all these years?

"Get over your stupid, asinine self, and make her talk to you. I don't care what you have to do. Just do it."

She gave a final wordless hiss as she shook him by his shirt once then released him with a shove before she barreled out the door. Does it qualify as a slam if it's not loud?

Lisbon shuffled back past him, bear claw and coffee in hand, and sat gingerly on the couch. He took a minute to really look at her. She appeared to be bone weary. Probably wasn't taking anything to help her sleep, so she probably hadn't slept since she'd been home. The bruising on her face was fading. Her left wrist was still casted—would be for seven more weeks. She moved so carefully. The ribs must still be tender. Then he took in what she was wearing. The oversized sports jersey wasn't a surprise. But the sweatpants, socks and full robe were a bit much. The Sacramento winter was cool—even chill at night—but this was overkill. The long sleeves of the robe fell over her hands, and the collar stood high enough to cover much of her neck. If she could have located a ski mask, he was sure she would be wearing it.

Lisbon was hiding.

He slid out of his jacket and hung it over the back of the chair that sat at her desk, just inside the door. He was glad she didn't flinch or pull into herself as he walked toward her. But he realized that she wasn't letting it register, and he thought that might be worse. He sat near her on the couch on her left side and watched her as she slowly ate the bear claw, meticulously retrieving the crumbs and flecks of glaze as they dropped into her lap. When she finished, there literally wasn't a bit left. She put her empty mug on the coffee table and sank back into the couch.

He had taken the time to glance around the apartment. There were new locks on the door—two deadbolts and a chain-as well as a security keypad just inside the door. The place was immaculate. Obviously all the work of the team. The boxes that had stood stacked in one corner the last time he had been there were gone. Photographs in single frames and collages hung on the walls, and other things—probably from the boxes—were placed around in a homey, artistic way. Obviously the work of Grace. He wondered idly if the thick chenille throw on the back of the couch had been boxed away somewhere. Why would Lisbon not have unpacked something so luxuriously comforting? He should have made her talk to him before. It would make it easier now to understand why she lived the way she lived, worked the way she worked. Of course, he knew most of it. He wished he would have heard it from her.

He wasn't exactly sure how to go about it. Lisbon might be translucent for the most part, but there were still those thick swirls of opaque from time to time. A mistake could prove volatile. He realized Grace had been waiting for her to talk, to share about the events of two weeks ago. That wasn't how Lisbon worked. She had to be drawn out, coaxed out of hiding with a sure and skilled hand, and she had to know beyond a shadow of a doubt it was safe. Beyond that, she would never confide in a subordinate unless it was Cho. And Cho would not pry. Going over his options, it occurred to him to try in reverse of how he had told Rigsby to approach her the day they had found her. Try just touching her first.

He reached over and took her left, casted hand in his right. She tensed but didn't withdraw. He reckoned a full minute passed before she relaxed. He scooted closer to her, transferring her hand to his left as he slid his right arm around her shoulders. She tensed again but, again, did not withdraw. In less than a minute she relaxed against him. They sat quietly like that for a bit, and when she sensed him opening his mouth to speak, she suddenly leaned full against him, sliding her arms around him at chest level, pressing her left ear against him just over his heart.

"Shh," was all she said. He sat for a moment, his elbows bent and arms awkwardly suspended in mid-air on either side of him. After he slowly lowered his arms to his sides, she snaked her right arm from around him and smoothed her palm upward along his chest until two fingertips rested lightly against the side of his neck.

"Lisbon—"

"Shh."

It took him only a few seconds to realize she was listening to his heart, feeling his pulse. He curved his right arm around her and held her firmly in place but not too tightly. His left arm rested over her right, his hand rubbing circles on her shoulder. When her breathing evened and the hand near his neck slumped away, he smoothly pivoted on the couch and laid down pulling her down with him. Feeling her relaxed against him in deep sleep, he was out in less than five.