7. IS THE SAFETY ON?

He must have some type of secondary post-traumatic stress syndrome. Every time he approached her door after dark and a breeze stirred, he felt a small fear grip him, not knowing what he might find. He had become aware of the fact that although he had been able to maintain firm control over his emotions and imagination at the time, walking into Lisbon's apartment that evening—was it only a couple of weeks ago?—had seemed eerily like walking in on another violent and ugly scene a few years back, enough so that the gentle breeze always produced a wrenching sensation somewhere below his stomach. Just as aware that it was neither judicious nor prudent to dwell on such thoughts if one did not wish to know the reason behind them, he tamped them down deep where he kept all other disturbing thoughts, next to the knowing that her bloodied handprint on the wall had caused as nearly as dramatic an upheaval in him, if only momentarily, as the blood-painted smile had years before. It didn't matter that the perpetrator was a complete unknown; the outcome would have been the same. The only realization he allowed to reach the light of day is that he did not know what he would have done if they hadn't found her. That and how imperative it was that Lisbon not know how deeply it had all affected him.

Again, the doorknob didn't yield, and he breathed easy. He knocked softly, not wanting to wake her if she had dozed off. It was nearly ten o'clock, and he wasn't even sure she would still be up, but he had promised to stop by. Not promised exactly but as good as. She didn't answer, and he pulled the lock picks out of his pocket. He could only imagine the fireworks if she found out he had an actual set of picks. He'd pulled them out of storage when he had first seen her new locks. Locks like that called for more than a slap and a tickle with a paper clip.

He disengaged both deadbolts with relative ease and softly opened the door. He frowned when he saw that the chain was off. So was the alarm. She was asleep face-down on the couch, two place settings on the coffee table along with an opened bottle of chardonnay and a half-full wine glass. The television was on, the volume so low the voices emitting from it sounding like soft murmurs. Fewer candles were lit tonight, and a lamp must have been on upstairs, its light falling softly from the landing. If the aroma was anything to go by, Lisbon wasn't kidding when she said she could handle chicken piccata. When he walked quietly to the couch and knelt beside her, he could see that she had one arm wrapped around and half hidden under the seat cushion her head was resting on.

"How's the case?" She mumbled into the cushion.

"Moving along. We talked to some witnesses, only three of whom I might consider as suspects. Grace did a lot of computer work. Rigsby twisted his ankle jumping out of a dumpster, but I think he'll be okay tomorrow."

"Get in trouble?"

"Couldn't. Wasn't anybody to get me out."

"Mmph."

"You do have the safety on that thing, right?"

Without lifting her head, she slid her hand out from under the cushion and held up her off-duty Glock. He jerked his head away from it and pursed his lips as he slid it out of her grasp.

"You should've just kept the alarm on."

"It's really loud." He chuckled down at her, realizing she had expected him to pick the locks again.

"Yeah, it is. Any piccata left?"

"All of it." She rolled her head to the side to look up at him through the strands of hair that had teased loose from her braids. "I didn't want to eat without you."

He carried her gun into the kitchen, stopping to bolt the front door and slide the chain. Carefully setting the weapon on the counter, he lifted the lid from the skillet. It was still warm. She shuffled into the kitchen and stood next to him.

"When did you make this?"

"About an hour ago. You called at six to say you'd be late. I knew you wouldn't be here much later than nine."

He turned, still holding the lid, to look down at her, wondering how in the world she had come to that conclusion. She looked so out of it, he knew he wouldn't get an intelligible answer, so he just turned her around, picked up the skillet and guided her back to the couch. She promptly lay down in exactly the same position in which he had found her but with her face turned toward him, her arms folded under her head. Pushing the plate out of the way, he sat on the coffee table alongside her and rested the skillet on the folded napkin. Eating out of it, he fed himself and Lisbon by turns until she wiggled and harrumphed, which he took as an indication that she didn't want any more. It was pretty good—almost as good as if he'd cooked it himself.

"Are you going to go upstairs to bed?"

When he got no answer, he nudged her and repeated the question. She jerked against him and harrumphed again, this time with attitude. He carried everything into the kitchen and washed up then returned with a pain pill and a glass of water.

"Come on, Sleeping Beauty. Time to take your drugs."

"No." She sounded like a cross and belligerent child.

He set pill and water on the table and slid his hand under one of her shoulders and across to the other, gripping it and raising her upper body off the couch. Then, using his other arm, he swept her knees sideways and spun and pivoted her into a sitting position. She frowned with her eyes still closed and held out one hand. He dropped the pill onto her palm, and she popped it into her mouth. She extended the hand again and, when he put the glass in it, wrapped her fingers around it and downed the water. He set the glass on the coffee table then pulled on her elbows and half dragged her to the door.

"Wake up. You need to lock up after I leave."

"Okay, okay."

"Know what you want for breakfast tomorrow?"

"Van Pelt's coming to take me to the doctor."

He stopped in his backward movement, still holding onto her, and looked down at her still closed eyes, not even trying to hide the concern in his voice. "So soon? Why?"

"Take a look at my ribs. Wants to make sure I'm taping myself right."

"You want me to take you?"

She opened her eyes to look up at him then.

"No, I need Van Pelt."

"Oh. Right." Getting up to go downstairs was one thing. Getting dressed to leave the apartment would require another pair of hands.

"I'll see you tomorrow night then."

"No. I think I'll be okay now."

He wavered for a moment, unsure how he felt about that. He was completely caught off guard when she shook loose from his hold and rose on tiptoe and wrapped both arms around his neck. She held him like that until his arms went around her waist then gave him one soft squeeze. He nearly squeezed back but stopped short, remembering her ribs.

"Thanks, Jane." She whispered into his ear before she kissed him softly on the cheek, releasing and lowering herself away from him.

"I was glad to do it, my dear. Call me if you need me."

"I will. Good night."

He walked out into the night and stood, listening to the sound of the locks sliding into place and the keypad beeping then stood a little longer, watching the glow from behind her curtains diminish until there was nothing left of it. Then he did something he hadn't done in a long time. He drove to a hotel downtown near the CBI and took a room. Tonight he felt like sleeping in a real bed.