12. YOU HAVE TO BREAK A LOT OF EGGS (To Make an Omelet)

She had left work at the uncharacteristically early time to get away; from the building, from the case, from him. Staring at her computer screen for thirty minutes had yielded no peace of mind over anything she had been through in the last two days, least of all Jane's behavior. As they had all stood watching Amy Larson being dragged away from the only love she wanted, Lisbon had felt a tug on her jacket. She looked down to find the fabric caught between Jane's thumb and crooked forefinger, a look she could only describe as woebegone heavy on his face. He seemed not to notice as she gently disengaged his fingers. Later, when she had announced that she was leaving, giving him no invitation to join or follow her, his face had left her so shaken she had to lean against the wall on the elevator once the door closed. She was too careful to throw around a word as strong as "obsessed", but the expression Jane had worn when she left him behind was the same one she had seen on his face when Minelli had taken the Red John case from them.

Too late she realized that she probably wouldn't be alone for long. When the doorbell rang, she only had time to grab the long robe and slide it on over the pale blue tank top and sleep shorts she had changed into. She considered not answering the door, but knew he wouldn't leave until he had at least seen her.

He rang the bell three times before he heard the deadbolts spin and slide and the chain come off. She opened the door but stood blocking his entrance, one hand on her hip, the other curled around the door's edge just above her head. He took in what she was wearing: the robe, tank top, sleep shorts and the tiny white socks she liked to wear around the house. The hand at her hip slid up and over to hold the robe closed just above her waist. There was no sign of welcome on her face.

"What do you want, Jane?"

"It was a difficult case. I wanted to make sure you're all right." He considered for a moment. "And I could use the company."

He was right. It had been difficult, and he didn't know the half of it. She thought about Amy and Kimberly and Ryan—the deceit, the broken faith, the sure and certain pain and possible destruction that comes with loving unwisely. It had suffocated her—the idea that one person could feel such need for another, dangerous and deadly need that had left Amy Larson psychologically shattered and her husband dead. Love had gone wrong, as it so often did, and had left no one standing in its aftermath. It may leave something to be desired, but she preferred her way—a life with no attachments, no regrets.

She looked him up and down. Something tickled at the back of her consciousness. Something she should realize, something of which she should beware. She felt confused and wary, but all she saw was how despondent he looked. Her hand on the edge of the door tightened then loosened then tightened again, finally sliding down as she pulled the door open further.

"Come in then," she said as she turned her back on him, leaving him to shut the door behind him. By the time he turned around, she had taken a seat, hunkering down in one corner of the couch. He sat with her, not near but close enough that she was barely within his reach. Close but not too close, as was their pattern.

"How are you feeling?"

It was the first question the bureau shrink had asked her after she was rescued. She never understood why how she felt was so important. She suspected it was a marker for others to watch, to gauge. She closed her eyes and raised her hands to her forehead, pushing her fingers back through her hair to grasp and hold at the back of her neck.

"I'm feeling tired. I'm feeling like today sucked. I'm feeling like I want to be alone. I'm feeling like I don't want to talk about how I'm feeling."

Her tone was close to hateful, and he was suddenly angry. This wasn't what he had come for.

"Why are you being such a smartass?"

Her eyes jerked open and glittered in anger then narrowed. He never talked to her like that. No one did.

"Don't look at me like that. I'm not after anything. I came over to see if you were all right, and I didn't want to be alone."

There was something she couldn't like in what he said, but her anger was somewhat defused by his honesty and the something close to vulnerability she heard in his voice. That combination was something she recognized. It was something that could get you into trouble.

"What do you want, Jane?" She repeated the question, letting him know in no uncertain terms that she wasn't interested in a fishing expedition. She wanted the whole truth, and not just about why he was there. She wanted to know what he had been about for the past few weeks. Did he even know?

"Before . . . After . . . When you came home from the hospital, you . . . things were different. You were different. You weren't the job or the badge or the super-cop. We talked, really talked for the first time. I liked it. I liked seeing the real you. I liked spending time with you like that—without the stress and the irritation and the anger. I liked cooking for you and watching movies with you. I liked not feeling like I had to apologize all of the time. I could do something for you, give something back to you. You weren't all sharp edges and bite. Then you put the walls back up and everything went back to the way it was. What happened, Lisbon? Where did you go?"

She had risen from the couch and walked away toward the stairs as he spoke, not wanting to be so close to him or look at him. Why was this about her? She wasn't sure what she had expected, but it wasn't this—hadn't expected him to say such things. She didn't like him like this, weak and exposed and pleading. Like it was possible for her to hurt him, almost like she was casting off a lover. And who did he think he was? This? From him? She wanted to be angry, but she couldn't work herself up to it. He would never leave if she didn't talk, but how to start?

"I was going through a bad time, and you helped me. But I got over it, and I didn't need—"

She knew he knew what she was going to say, but hearing the words would hurt him. She didn't want to do that, and—uncomfortably—she knew it wasn't true anyway. Her shoulders sagged, and she sighed.

"I can't be what you think you want. I'm not that girl, Jane."

He stood and turned to look at her but didn't move to close the distance between them.

"Yes, you are, Lisbon. You're that laughing, silly, teasing, sweetly funny girl. Or you were before . . . everything. I know you are because I've caught glimpses of her over the years. But for those few weeks she was out in full force. Don't get me wrong—I like tough-as-nails Lisbon. I like your stability and your good sense. I like your honesty, and your sarcasm and even your snark within reason. And your flawlessly executed tackle is a thing of beauty, not to mention incredibly hot, but you can't shut her out and say she's not a part of you anymore than you can cut off an arm or refuse to talk. Why would you do that? To spite life? To spite me?"

She knew there was much more, that he didn't even realize how deeply whatever was going on went, but this was bad enough. She should stay calm and try to talk him through this, but he had gone too far, come too close, and now her anger spiked at his audacity.

"Yes, Jane. Everything I am is utterly, completely, one hundred percent to spite you. Are we done with me now? Can we talk about you? Because I would sure as hell like to know who you're trying to spite, you hypocrite."

"You can't possibly be comparing—"

"Of course, not, Jane. What would I know about pain and loss and grief and rage? What would I know about wanting somebody to pay? What would I know since I was twelve years old? What would I know about facing every single stinking problem and every single stinking fear completely alone? What would I know about wanting it to stop? About wanting it to just be over? But somebody's got to keep going, Jane. Somebody's got to keep pushing. Somebody's got to keep doing what's right. And that somebody's me. Because somehow, Jane, somehow I never got invited to that special club where I get to say enough is enough and now it's time for me to get mine!"

She turned her back on him, shuddering with angry hurt, her arms wrapped tight around her, fingertips digging into her sides, mad at him for making her say those things. She was supposed to help him find control, not lose her own. She didn't want him to speak. If he dared to try to analyze her or comfort her or read her, she would do him bodily harm.

"Remind me to never ask you how you're feeling again."

He realized he had probably just taken an incredible risk. He felt off and knew he wasn't handling this very well. If this went wrong, he could expect to get tossed out at the very least, and he did not want that. He wouldn't go. He would refuse to leave her. He needed to stay here, right here, with her. He knew he should wonder over the need to be near her, to be able to see her all of the time, but he couldn't seem to think his way out of this fog, this thick stuff that was all bound up in his head with her lately. It was getting harder for him to breathe, and he knew he needed to calm down. She's here, right here in front of me, and she's all right.

He focused on her back, on the slight movements of her fingers where they flexed against her ribs. He watched her as she evaluated the situation and then reevaluated. Her body language was surprisingly difficult to read. Finally, her arms relaxed their hold and dropped to her sides. She needed to get them back on track. If she could just get them back to a safe place—teasing, bickering, even bantering if it would work. She decided in for a penny, in for a pound and said the most outrageous thing she could think of.

"So . . . you think the tackle is hot."

She could feel him relax behind her. Even though she had no clue what she was doing, she guessed she must have said something close to the right thing.

"Very."

"And you like it that I'm sensible?"

"Now that I'm a little embarrassed about."

She looked straight ahead, still facing away from him. She brought one hand up and ran her fingers through her hair from forehead to crown, resting her hand on top of her head for a moment before it dropped back to her side and she turned halfway toward him. She threw out something easier, and he was able to follow her lead and go along with it.

"You know, I haven't eaten since—"

"You didn't have lunch."

"I didn't?" She frowned, trying to remember.

"You didn't."

This felt better. Safer. She turned to look past him into the kitchen, scrunching her nose. "I could really go for an omelet."

"Do you have the makings?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. I'd have to check."

"You don't know?"

She shrugged again. "My personal shopper quit. He wasn't very reliable."

"Maybe he thought his contract was up."

"He cooked AND shopped. We had an understanding."

She moved toward the kitchen, and as she passed him, he suddenly reached out and grabbed her hand. Her momentum caused her to coil back toward him, and he gave a tug meaning to pull her into a friendly hug. But as his arms circled around her, they inadvertently moved under the robe, and when she wrapped her arms around his neck in a friendly response that caused her tank top to ride up, his hands came into contact with the smooth skin at her waist.

It had been so long since he touched a woman, so long since he even thought about it, and so long thinking he would never do so again that touching Lisbon was like the first time. All thought actually left his head, and everything became pure sensation. Her skin was soft beneath his hands, her hair was silken against his cheek, and her body was warm and pliant everywhere it touched his. She smelled of citrus and mint, and it was more instinct than wondering that made him dip his head to nuzzle her neck and see with a flick of his tongue if she tasted of the same. His hands, again without thought, had moved unhindered under her shirt up her bare back, but when the first thought to actually pass through his head was the memory of Lisbon walking in front of him as they left the salon, one hand shifted direction. Just as his fingertips teased past the waistband at the back of her shorts, she reached back and stilled his hand, jolting him to awareness.

He realized his breathing was ragged and shallow, and try as he might he couldn't seem to control it. He knew he should pull away, but between his embarrassment and his just plain not wanting to, he couldn't seem to control that either. As his head cleared, he realized he would have to let go sooner rather than later, but he didn't think he could bear to see the anger or bewilderment or fear that he knew she was surely feeling. Lisbon was having trouble keeping her own thoughts clear now—this felt too good. Again she thought if she could just defuse this . . . situation.

"Is 'omelet' code for something else in man-speak? 'Cause I was talking about the kind you make with eggs in a skillet? . . . In the kitchen?"

There she was . . . that girl again. The one he could rely on to be light and easy and make everything make sense. His chuckle came out almost like a growl, low and breathy against her neck, and against her will she shivered and melded into him. When she spoke next her voice was not so steady.

"Jane?"

"Just . . . Please, just give me a minute." He very slowly, agonizingly slowly, gave her up, seemingly an inch at a time, finally bringing his hands to her waist and stepping away. His eyes were closed, and he realized they had been the whole time. He, slowly again, opened one of them to peer somewhat fearfully at her.

Again, he surprised her. She expected to see something like the look he'd worn outside the salon—that suggestive gleam, a mixture of curiosity and lust. But the sheepish little boy in front of her, looking for the world like he'd just knocked a prized vase off of a table pulled a bubbling laugh out of her. Both eyes snapped open at her, and he pressed his lips into a thin, annoyed line.

"I know I'm probably out of practice, but it couldn't have been that bad."

"Oh it wasn't bad. Wasn't bad at all." She walked away, and his hands fell from her waist. Without thinking and under the influence of the misapprehension that they were back in safe and friendly territory, reverting back to that uninhibited girl he had missed, she turned and winked at him over her shoulder. Too late she realized her error for he stepped to her and grabbed her wrist, pulling her back to him fiercely, his hands clutching her upper arms and holding her to him so tightly that she had to stand on her toes in his grasp. Her startled eyes looked up, held fast by his heated ones.

"Don't taunt me, Teresa." His voice was low and almost menacing. She swallowed and nodded, lips parting, unable to speak around her own now shallow breathing. Despite her compliance, he did not release her. His gaze lowered to her mouth as hers did to his. He leaned to her, unable to hold himself away from her until that last fraction of an inch. He watched her with hooded eyes, and when she finally closed hers in surrender, he teased her bottom lip gently with his teeth and pulled her to him before slowly taking her mouth fully with his own.

She shouldn't let him do this, shouldn't have given in, but she couldn't seem to do whatever she needed to make him stop. Instead, she moaned, high and soft into him, and his hands slid down her sides and around her waist as her palms smoothed upwards against his chest to rest on his shoulders. As always, moving in sync, they shifted and tilted, searching for the deeper kiss, the sweeter angle. One of his hands moved up her back and pulled her against him, crushing her breasts against his chest, and he gave an answering moan. His other hand shifted at her waist but hovered there until she reached back and this time guided it down and over the swell of her backside then pushed it into the soft curve of her flesh, encouraging him to touch her on his own. When he took the hint and grabbed hold of her pulling her against him, she twisted her hips, grinding into him hard. He groaned so loudly that it startled him into a momentary pause, but he recovered almost instantly, sliding his hand under her and lifting her so that her legs could circle around him. He lifted her a few inches then let her slide down against him. The friction was so tantalizing, he repeated it, and then again.

He suddenly realized what he was doing and, embarrassingly, what he was about to do. Murmuring a mantra of apology, he slid her down onto the couch, apologized once more . . . and fled.