15. COME OUT, COME OUT WHEREVER YOU ARE

He lay on his makeshift bed in the attic dozing fitfully after his restless weekend. He had come in early to avoid running into anyone. Running into her. He parked in his usual space, and he knew she would be looking for his car and would know he was there. If she needed him, she could come and get him. There was no reason to willingly step into the lions' den.

But by ten o'clock, he was tired of waiting. Even with no case, he had thought she would come up for a "We-have-to-talk" talk. That's the headlong way she always approached him when something was off. He thought about it and realized that wasn't exactly the case anymore. That may be the way Agent Lisbon did things, but it wasn't Teresa's way as he had come to know her. She would take it easy, let him come to her when he was ready. He smiled up at the ceiling.

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She felt him in her doorway before she saw him. She knew he was looking at her, waiting for her to look up and notice him and be either pleased or apprehensive now that he had come.

"Decide to finally join the rest of us?" She kept her eyes on the paper in front of her. He'd come this far. Nothing wrong with making him work for it every now and then, and she intended to make him work for every inch today.

"I was afraid I missed the donut run."

"You're the only one who runs for donuts." She looked up at him now, her head tilted back slightly so she could look down her nose at him. "As a matter of fact, I think donuts are the only thing you do run for."

He smiled and slid through the doorway and into the chair across the desk from her.

"If you remember correctly, I've run for pizza a time or two."

"Ah, yes. The pizza run of '09."

Jane gave her his most beguiling smile—the one that always drew one from her in answer, but it was wasted when she looked back down at the file in front of her.

"Is there something you want, Jane?"

He was sure she didn't mean it the way it sounded—she wasn't so designing as that. But something about her light and easy tone coupled with those words sent a jolt through him, and his smile almost faltered.

"Just to see your lovely face, m'dear."

"Well, you've seen it. How about you go find some work to do now?"

"Meh, I don't know. I'm enjoying myself right here."

"Meh, get your butt out of my office and earn your keep."

"Lisbon—"

She looked back at him, her expression serious but not guarded or unpleasant.

"Not here, Jane. Not now. How about we have some lunch later?"

He considered for a moment. She had obviously thought out how this would all go. He decided to take it easy on himself and let her lead. He had had a rough three days.

"Oh, all right," he said, stroking his hands up and down the front of his vest. "If you insist. But don't make me wait too long. I'm already feeling a bit peckish."

He strolled out of her office to the break room to make himself a cup of tea, confident she wouldn't step foot out of the building one minute before noon.

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When he realized where they were headed, he knew why she had decided to leave at eleven thirty. It wasn't because she was eager for his company. They drove the fifteen minutes to Selland's Market Café, wanting to beat the lunch rush. He wondered at her choice. It was loud and crowded at Selland's, and they would have to practically yell to have their private talk. They stood at the counter and discussed their preferences before she turned and pointed toward the back of the huge warehouse-type room.

"I'll take care of the order. You grab that table in the back."

He turned, following her direction and made his way to the table, grabbing straws, napkins and that spicy ketchup she liked for her fries along the way. He watched her, glad for the distance so he could do so outright, hoping to get a read on her as well as enjoying the view. He embraced the pang he felt in knowing enjoying her from a distance was all he could ever hope for. She was small and slender, soft and deceptively delicate, athletic and physically fierce. She tilted her head and looked up at the order board when it was her turn. The guy at the counter took the opportunity to let his gaze roam over her. The man behind her was checking her out as well, specifically her rear.

Jane was surprised, shocked really, by the sudden, heated jealousy that swept over him. He had never experienced that before, not even with Angela, always sure of her, sure of himself with her. His mind swirled and blurred again, and by the time Lisbon got to the table, he was almost angry at her for letting them look.

"Are you okay?" Her voice was light, her eyes keen.

"No, yes, yeah." He shook his head to clear it. "I'm fine."

"Really? 'Cause you were looking at that guy over there like he was going to steal your sandwich."

No. Not my sandwich.

"I'm fine. Just thinking."

"'Bout what?"

If she had asked him while she was taking a bite or situating her ketchup, he wouldn't have thought anything of it. He had almost missed it as it was, but she asked him so pointedly, looking right at him. He felt like he was being read.

"Nothing in particular."

"Really? I would have thought that with everything that's happened your head would be full of all kinds of things."

"Like what, for instance?"

Now she situated her ketchup, seemingly totally unconcerned with how the conversation would go. She was getting much better at deflecting.

"Oh, like . . . a little bit of guilt? The usual self-loathing? But I'll bet a lot of confusion. No, let's go straight for the big win. Fear. Fear that I'll get in your way."

He hadn't seen that coming. The nonchalance he had mistaken for deflection was a set-up to move straight in for the kill. He had to hand it to her. She took a small bite of her deli sub, still not looking at him, as if she wasn't curious about his reactions.

"I'm not sure I know what you mean, Lisbon." He had yet to unwrap his sandwich.

"Don't lie to me, Jane." She said it with an almost lyrical tone. Something about it seemed dangerous to him, and that made him angry.

"I'm not a suspect."

"I know. I'm not treating you like one."

"I'm not a mark either."

"I know that, too."

"You're reading me."

"Am I?"

His eyes narrowed, and he leaned across the table at her.

"What are you playing at, Teresa?"

His voice was intentionally low, mimicking that menacing tone he had used Thursday night just before she had yielded to him. She knew that coupling that tone with her given name was meant to produce the same result now. Fortunately, she was ready for him. More ready for him than he was for her. She felt her heart rate quicken but gave him no telltale sign of his effect on her. She moved languidly, lowering her sandwich to the table, lifting her napkin to dab at the corners of her mouth before she slowly raised her eyes to his, leaning back in her chair.

"As you're fond of pointing out, Jane, I'm not very good at playing your games. But over the years, I've become very good at watching you. Being amused by you, following after you, letting you have your head when I could tell you were on to something, even cheering you on at times."

He wouldn't let her know it, but he was confused. He had thought they would talk about what happened Thursday night. She would say it was a mistake, nothing could come of it because of regulations, their propensity for arguing and his blood quest. He would agree, and they would slip back into familiar routines. Where was she going with this? The lunch crowd was in full swing, and the sound around him was at full pitch, but it was background noise, like waves rushing the beach. All he could hear clearly was her voice, low and steady. He felt like he was being pulled toward her, not realizing that he was actually leaning that way.

"I've seen you trick Rigsby and bait Cho and play with Van Pelt. I've seen you outsmart Virgil and get around Hightower. I've seen you lie to the cheaters and cheat the players and play the cons. I've seen you take from everyone and give only when you knew you could take something away."

She leaned forward now, and he felt himself instinctively leaning back away from her. "I've seen you, Jane. And I see you now."

A small smile, half mischief, half malice curled at her lips. Something important had happened, and he had missed it. Long before the frightening and impossible revelations of the weekend, long before he had gone at her, only wanting her heat and her skin against him Thursday night. He tried to smirk his way out of it.

"And what—," he rolled his hand toward her, "—may I ask, is it exactly that you think you see?"

She leaned back in her chair, relaxed and confident.

"You hate yourself—"

"I've heard this all before, Lisbon."

"—for wanting me."

He froze, his hand still hovering above the table.

"You hate yourself for caring for me and worrying that it may put me in danger. It's been eating you up since that night. It shook you up, more than you realized, more than you would've thought possible, because it forced to you to see, forced you to feel what you've been trying not to feel for a while now. Remember, Jane? You said it yourself. "Anybody that gets close to me, bad things happen to them." But I wasn't the one moving, Jane. I was right where I've always been. I wasn't the one getting closer. You were warning me about what happens when you get too close."

He lowered his hand and looked at her levelly. He remembered what she was talking about. A case, shortly after Kristina disappeared. Keith Farrow had killed his wife's ex for humiliating him and killed the ex's rich and powerful employer merely for confusion's sake. Lisbon had lied to him to get him to work the investigation because she saw him isolating himself. He had been surprised that she figured it out and caught him in the lie when he said he would stop. He looked down at his sandwich and frowned because he couldn't remember now what he had ordered.

He needed to slow things down, get control. He didn't like where she was taking this. It was too close to the truth, and he couldn't afford that—the cost was too high. He needed to throw her off, take the conversation in a different direction.

"Lisbon, you've got it all wrong. I've been worried about you and a little overly protective, I'll admit. But you weren't yourself for so long—the nightmares and the mood swings. I know you felt vulnerable and exposed . . ."

She wasn't buying it. She still sat back, but now she had crossed her arms, watching him with one eyebrow crooked. He had thought if he put the focus on her, her fears and weaknesses, he could shift her away from the very dangerous edge of the truth she had been skirting. The events of that night were the key. She had never been willing to talk about it in detail, probably had never even allowed herself to think about it. Although it was cruel, it was his one best weapon now. He just hoped she didn't fall apart on him in the middle of Selland's lunch rush.

"Lisbon, I think that night brought a lot of things to the surface you haven't wanted to face. Things about your life, your past, your family. It shook you up. It shook me up, and I was only there afterwards. When he took you—"

"They."

"What?" The single word threw him.

"They took me, Jane. He didn't take me."

She knew. She knew all of it—what he had been thinking, what he was afraid of, what he had been feeling . . . what he felt for her. She'd had time to think about all of it, but unlike him, she hadn't been afraid to face the truth. She unfolded her arms and leaned into the table, her forearms resting on it. Her gaze was warm but direct. He felt the pull toward her again. He was many things, a fool among them perhaps, but he was no idiot. He sighed and folded his hands in his lap, curling his feet around the legs of his chair.

"How about if you just tell me how this is going to go?"

"You're not going to like it." He shrugged, but she could see the tension in his eyes.

"I know you don't want to face it, Jane. I know you don't want to admit your feelings for me, let alone have those feelings. It would have been fine with you if you could've just gone on thinking of me as a cog in the machine you were using to hunt down Red John. It certainly would have been easier that way. For both of us. But that's not what's happened. It hasn't stayed nice and distant and by-the-book. It hasn't gone according to plan. But you have to face it. We have to face it and decide what we're going to do about it."

"Lisbon, please, can't we just—"

"No, Jane, we can't just anything. It's gone beyond that. That night, you opened my door, saw the evidence of what happened to me, saw my blood on the wall—"

He flinched, and she knew it had been like that other night for him—another door, another blood smear. She wished she could go easy on him, but it just wasn't possible. She had an objective, and it was imperative that she take him there.

"—and it brought your feelings to the forefront, and you didn't want to recognize them for what they were. But I was alive. You had gotten me back and there was nothing to keep you from acting on them and you did, without even realizing it—touching me, holding me, kissing me. It started to escalate, and Thursday night, it was suddenly too much to hold back. You wanted me, and when you acted on it, you panicked. For the last three days, you've been beating yourself up. You hate yourself for wanting me and for possibly putting me in danger. But most of all you hate yourself for knowing, even if you refuse to admit it, that wanting me and caring for me may possibly cause you to one day go off your hell-bent-for-vengeance course.

She straightened, pulling away from him, confident of what she was about to say.

Well, I've got news for you, boy-o. It already has."

At that his head snapped up and his eyes flared.

"Never," he spat at her, not caring if it hurt her. It didn't. She was just getting started. She smirked and there was mocking laughter in her voice.

"Oh, you still want him, but you're too completely distracted to get him. You've been my shadow for the past two-and-a-half months. You nearly panic if you don't know where I am. You call me numerous times during the day to talk about nothing. You use any excuse to touch me no matter how ridiculous. You sleep at my apartment at the slightest suggestion. I have your clothes hanging in my closet, your laundry in my hamper. Dammit, Jane, you watch me eat!

She had to make him understand what she was trying to say. Now she leaned forward, straining against the table's edge to get as close to him as it would allow. Her voice was intense, and her eyes were so clear, so focused.

"You've been off for the last three cases, and the only reason you noticed that necklace on Kimberly Nesbitt is because she came across the table at me. I thought you were bored during the interview, but you were looking around, surveying the grounds, watching out for me. You're nearly obsessed with keeping me safe, and it's slowing you down, throwing you off your game. You were right, Jane. I'm not good at playing your kind of games, but I can see it. I can read you. I'm two steps ahead of you. And if I'm two steps ahead, I can't imagine how far ahead Red John will be when you catch him, and that can – not – happen."

He looked at her stunned. It was the closest she would ever come to acknowledging that he might have his way in the thing. She leaned back satisfied she had made her point, but she wasn't finished yet, and her voice lost none of its force.

"I haven't changed my mind about Red John, Jane. If you try to do violence to him I will try to stop you. If you succeed, I will arrest you. I will cuff you and read you your rights and take your statement. I wouldn't leave that to anyone else, no matter . . ."

For the first time since she sat down she wavered. Her face nearly crumpled and the sudden tears hovered before sheer will took over. Her eyes glittered at him as her voice turned passionate, almost defiant.

"But I will not see you stuffed and zipped into a body bag because you couldn't reconcile your feelings for me with your hatred for him."

He swallowed hard. There was no deep analysis or insight into his psyche in what she said, but the truth is always simple. He brought one hand to his forehead and scrubbed it hard down his face, trying to gather his thoughts. He inhaled deeply and sighed, never taking his eyes off hers. He really didn't know what to say or do. It wasn't the first time in four short months she had brought him to such a pass. Hopefully, she had an idea or two. Blessedly, she could read his mind.

"I think putting all our cards on the table is best. Tell me the truth, Jane. Just give the first answer that comes to mind. Don't think—it will only give you the chance to lie, and I'll know if you lie." He was positive that was true. "Since Thursday night, have you felt guilty?"

"No." He had already waded through that, and while he was still surprised by it, he was still just as certain of it.

"Neither have I. Are you confused in any way about your feelings for me?"

"No." It was almost a relief to say it.

"Good. Neither am I." The ridiculous thought that this wasn't very romantic crossed his mind. It was more like détente. She continued.

"You love me."

"Yes?" He almost laughed. Her statement should've been the question.

"Then heaven help us because I feel the same."

How in the world had she managed to make that sound romantic? His sigh was like a white flag.

"Well, Bugsy, what do you propose we do about it?"

"I say we have at it."

His mind had never cleared so quickly.

"Can we go somewhere quieter?"

"Grab your sandwich."