I seem to have gotten caught up in the spirit of Shakespeare during this story. Oh, well.

Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs.

Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes,

Being vexed, a sea nourished with lovers' tears.

What is it else? . . .

14. A MADNESS MOST DISCREET (Romeo and Juliet: Act I, Scene 1)

She hadn't heard from him in three days.

She understood about Friday. Goodness knows she hadn't been looking forward to the day after the night before either—what there had been of it anyway. They had both needed time. The day had passed slowly and uneventfully. Hightower had asked her three times if she had heard from Jane, and each time she had been relieved to say no. Her boss assumed she was trying to reach him, and she let her do so. Hightower didn't need to know everything, and if they didn't need him for a case, what did it matter? She knew he was most likely still in town, probably at the hotel he stayed at from time to time. She was reasonably sure he wouldn't go to his house. It was too far away from her, and any guilt he might feel would keep him from haunting the place where he had lived with his wife. Satisfied she knew where he most likely was, she was glad to not have to worry on that score.

She missed him—missed the sound of his voice and the rhythm of his movement in her kitchen. She missed arguing with him about whether Ingrid Bergman or Cary Grant was right in the tug-of-war they played at and both nearly lost in the old movie she had watched on Saturday. She had sat patiently through it then taken a hot bath before she went to bed knowing she would probably hear from him in some way or another the next day. It was Sunday after all.

But Sunday had come and nearly gone without a word. It hurt, but she knew he was hurting, too—tangling himself up in worry and confusion. When it grew quite late in the day, she decided to text him.

Safe.

She knew he hadn't forgotten her, knew he was most likely beating himself up over what had happened. She wondered if he would figure it out or if his mind was so clouded that he would miss it completely. She hoped he wouldn't be stupid about it, willing to pass up something that could be so very good for both of them if they were only willing to merely capitulate.

There would be certain non-negotiables. She had never been able to accept his propensity for lying, whether about his outlandish schemes or Red John. She was better at spotting the lies now, but that didn't make her less angry over them or less wary of him. That would have to stop. For the most part, she trusted his heart, but if she couldn't trust his words, if he intentionally deceived her whether with an outright falsehood or by simple omission, then she could never be completely certain of him. Contrary to what he and others thought they knew of her, she was not so deep in denial that she didn't realize the importance of this. For her, that uncertainty would be like not being able to depend on the ground beneath her feet.

And he would have to talk to her. It had always hurt her when he shut himself away, unable even to allow himself the comfort of knowing someone cared about him. She could not bear to love him and not be able to give him whatever comfort she may be able to offer. The heartache would be too great.

Beyond that she was worried for him. She had seen how out of focus he was. His powers of observation and ability to seemingly look into people's minds were still keen, but his refusal or inability to make the connections regarding his feelings for her in his own mind was causing occasional, small glitches in the rest of his thinking, as if misfires in the back of his mind were causing the same in the forefront. She suspected Cho had noticed as well, and Grace had seemed to puzzle over it a couple of times but had undoubtedly dismissed it as teasing on his part or further evidence of the downward spiral the team seemed to accept without question. She was able to read him more now, and while under their usual circumstances that would make her happy, it now served only as further proof of his lapse. Knowing his objective, his unapologetic goal, this was a dangerous thing. For his success but more for his safety, he had to be at his best. It was obvious to her that Jane was off his game.

Fortunately for him, fortunately for them both, she wasn't.

He read her text and smiled, relieved and more at ease in his mind as he flipped his phone shut. His not calling her on Sunday had certainly not been due to not thinking about her. On the contrary, he had thought of little else. Whatever they were, if they could still be friends, or if they went back to being friendly colleagues, he really didn't deserve her. He would go back in and face her. She was certainly making it easy for him. She hadn't called him all weekend to see where or how he was, not wanting to cause any more drama than was already in the mix. It didn't seem like she bore him any ill will. And the text made him feel less embarrassed. She was dear and wise and warm . . . and that's the way it had been all weekend. He would start to extol the virtues of Lisbon, and before he knew it his mouth was tasting her skin and his hand was straining against the memory of touching her and every inch of her sliding against every inch—

Maybe he shouldn't go in until Tuesday.

He was being ridiculous. They were adults. They were friends and colleagues. They had known each other for years. These things happened. He had stopped it before it went too far. Lisbon would say it was a mistake and that they should pretend it never happened. He groaned and dropped his head into his hands. If he could just stop remembering the feeling . . . They were friends. And these things didn't happen to him. They couldn't happen to him. At least he hoped they were still friends. And why had it happened? Except for the very vivid feelings of sensation, his thoughts of Lisbon swirled and blurred in his mind. Periodically something would rise to the surface in mock partial clarity. Her eyes mostly—warm and laughing, curious and interested, angry and questioning. What was she looking for, he wondered, that she knew enough to be angry without knowing all? What clues had she picked up on that were leading her? What was she seeing when she looked at him like that? He didn't want to think about it. He would rather not think of her at all right now.

He had chosen to stay at the hotel. He didn't want to go to the house, and he couldn't go to the CBI—even the attic would be no kind of sanctuary. The only other place he had stayed in town was her apartment. Maybe he should consider getting a place of his own.

It sounded lonely. He missed her. It wasn't just what had happened Thursday night. It was all of it. Everything about her. He had watched "Indiscreet" on the classic movie channel the night before, and he could imagine her sitting next to him and sighing every time Cary Grant appeared on the screen, shaking her head at Ingrid Bergman for risking losing him, reaching across him to get some popcorn, falling asleep with her head almost touching his shoulder.

Pathetic. That's what he was. He was a sucker when it came to love. He'd been the same way with . . .

His musings came to a grinding halt, and his head emptied of all thought except for the small bit that knew what he had been about to put to words, if only in his mind, could not possibly be true. He realized his movements had stilled completely and his breath was quiet and shallow as if he were in hiding, afraid to be found out. He shouldn't even dare think such a thing. But even though the words had not fully formed, he knew the thought was in his mind, and he despaired to realize the feeling was in his heart as well. He had no right to commit such a betrayal against his past or aspire to anything in his future. He had chosen his course, and he would hold to it. He had something he had to do. Something he would do, no matter what. Nothing could get in the way. There was nothing else.

Except that there was. How had he missed this? He closed his eyes and let forbidden feelings and images wash over him. When she was taken, after he had called Cho, he had barely been able to contain the wail of anguish the sight of her blood on the wall had threatened to tear from him. Over the next few days, fear had choked him until he was unable to eat, and nightmares of her lying hacked and bloody had filled him with such terror that he was afraid of sleep. Then she had been found, and he had not trusted himself to go near her, too close to weeping with relief that went so deep he thought if he gave into it, it would tear him in two. In the hospital, he had sat and stared at her in the faint light as she slept as if she might be taken from him again if he closed his eyes or looked away. After she had gone home, only away from him two days, he had been unable to withstand the pull that brought him to her door and made it impossible for him to leave her for more than a few hours at a time. He had talked, and she had listened; he had cooked, and she had eaten; he had touched her, and she had let him. She had teased him and needed him and beguiled him. Of everything that he felt concerning her, he was surprised there was no guilt, as if it had no place where she was loved. She had given him something sweet and precious, and he knew he would do anything, give anything if he could just—

His anger flared at her suddenly and irrationally, as if she had somehow intentionally brought him to this pass, seduced him so that she might rob him of his revenge. The thought was dismissed as quickly as it had come, but another more fearsome one took its place. There were few things left that caused him dread—everything worthy of it had been taken from him. Now it washed over him, nearly robbing him of breath, forcing him to consider what might happen to her if it were found out. He couldn't bear thinking of it, but that part of his mind that was slightly unhinged and altogether rightly paranoid had to face the possibility that his feelings for her posed more of a threat to her life than to his objective.

Even if there were a way, even if she could be safe, it couldn't happen. He could never expect, never hope for her to return his feelings. She knew the same things he knew. She knew what he was and what he was about. She wouldn't want to be saddled with a lose-lose proposition like him.

He sat in the chair in his hotel room and thought of nothing as the darkness gathered around him. He tried to watch a movie but couldn't concentrate. He took a hot bath, but it brought him no comfort. And when he finally laid his head down on the pillow knowing that he only slept well and deeply when she was near and that he would never have the privilege again of having her so, he had to face the realization that in spite of his guilt and regret, in spite of his self-hatred and bitterness, in spite of his bloodlust for vengeful murder, until now, he had never known exactly what it was to be a completely, utterly lost cause.