Oh I could throw you in the lake
Or feed you poisoned birthday cake
I wont deny I'm gonna miss you when you're gone
Oh I could bury you alive
But you might crawl out with a knife
And kill me when I'm sleeping

-"I Can't Decide", Scissor Sisters

The two glasses of water she had before falling asleep caused the predictable results around 5 am. Once awake, she felt the hunger return in force. She made her way to the kitchen. She found a bowl that appeared microwave-safe, opened a can of soup to heat up, and nibbled on a handful of peanuts while waiting for the microwave to finish its job. Remembering the tea she had left brewing in the refrigerator, she decided to check on it. When she opened the refrigerator door, she saw that the pitcher was gone. She looked in the dishwasher - there was the pitcher she had used. There were several damp tea bags in the trash can, easy to see because there was hardly more than a few paper towels in there with them.

Without thinking, she said, "That petty son of a bitch!" Hoping he was out of earshot, she knew if she were going to do him any good, she had to hold back the urge to tell him what she really thought about the way he was treating her, at least for the moment. She needed to stay with him. However angry he was with her for shutting down his chance at revenge, she could feel he was also subconsciously, desperately terrified that she would give up on him. He had a childlike need both for proof that she would stick this out, and also for proof of how much she was willing to let it cost her to do so. She wondered, not for the first time, what he had been like with his family, what his true self was like without the need for the emotional armor of the persona he put on in order to cope with trauma and work for Red John's downfall - had she ever seen it? Or were the glimpses of honesty she got never more than displays of his traumatized, immediate reality?

Trying a few kitchen drawers, she found a spoon. She settled down on a stool at the island. As she ate the soup, she began to wonder how long Jane was going to need her there.

IIIIIIIIII

Jane spent a few hours out on the beach, behind the house. He paced on the sand, or sat on a stone bench that had been built into the patio beneath the balcony.

Hearing Lisbon pray for his wife and daughter, then addressing them, obviously feeling more comfortable with the thought of them than she had the right to be, than he wanted her to be, was more than disquieting. As he exited the house, he strode off down the beach to the high water mark by the light of stars and moon and neighbors' security lights, staring at the water. The rush of the breakers calmed him, brought him enough back to himself that he could shed the heat of anger, and think coldly about what Lisbon had done, had been doing. He felt disconcerted by her ability to put on a show of making peace with the family he had lost, when he knew he was refusing to do so himself. They were his family, his loss. She had already taken what was his, she would not be permitted to take them as well.

If she did not respect his dominion over what belonged to him, he would require her to bend her will to his until she learned better. He was afraid that he would not be able to strike as deeply at Lisbon as he wanted, and at the same time, afraid of the results if he did. He wondered if the promises and moves that he had made in the past to protect her had established a pattern that he was finding hard to break. He often expected he would have to save her from himself. He had expected her to need rescue from the consequences of his hunt - not that she would need protection from his own craving for satisfaction.

He needed to make her know, so that she could not escape the understanding of what she had taken from him. He needed her to match that loss, have it make her as hollow as he was. He had told her in the attic at the CBI offices that there was nothing he could take from her that was worth as much as his revenge was worth to him. In return for what she had taken from him, he would take her. She could walk free of him, but if she did not, he would have his way. He had her in his power now; that was worth more to him than putting a knife into her. Much as a lover might take the liberty of overwhelming his beloved, echoing the ancient mystery of storm god overwhelming earth goddess, Jane would take the liberty of the God of the Underworld in creating She Who Brings Destruction.

IIIIIIIIIII

It was 4:30 am when he came back in. He opened a can of evaporated milk and made some tea. Finding a Tupperware container for it, he put the remainder of the milk in the refrigerator. When he saw the pitcher she had brewing, anger surged again, and he murmured, "Not in my house, Lisbon. You'll drink it properly made, or not at all." He took it out, poured the tea down the sink, and threw out the tea bags. After finishing his own tea, he went to the living room and dozed on the couch until about 6:00 am when he heard the front door open and close.

IIIIIIIIIII

After finishing her soup, she thought about taking a shower. Lisbon felt more than grubby. She desperately wanted a change of clothes, or at least something to wear while washing what she was currently wearing. She went upstairs in search of something to put on after a shower. Jane's closet yielded nothing. The linen closet in the en-suite had a few towels, some of them fluffy and generous. She was not quite desperate enough to parade around Jane's house wrapped in a towel, but if she could find nothing better, it would only be a matter of hours before she would be.

She could not remember why it was she had picked up his keys in the first place last evening, but they were in her pocket now. She decided to bring his overnight bag in from the car. With any luck, she would find shorts and a t-shirt she could commandeer. It might feel weird to wear his clothes like that, but it would be better than a towel. So she went back downstairs. Noticing Jane sacked out on the couch, she tried to be quiet as she went out the door.

He was sitting up when she came back in. "Thoughtful of you to bring my bag in, Teresa. Is there something you need?" He held a hand out toward her, expectantly.

"I was hoping there might be something I could borrow to change into after a shower," she said as she brought it to him.

"I'm sure you weren't thinking of borrowing without asking, were you? After all, that would be theft." His arch tone grated on her nerves.

Not letting her frustration into her voice, she simply said, "Please, Jane?"

He was gratified by the effort she put into covering what she really felt, so he opened the bag, and handed her a white undershirt. She kept her expression neutral while she waited a few moments as he paused before pulling out a pair of boxers for her, as well.

"Thank you."

As she turned to go upstairs, he said, "Aren't you forgetting something?"

"I'm sorry, if I have, I've forgotten what it is," she said with a ghost of a smile.

"Ha." He held out his hand. "My keys, Teresa."

"Oh, right." She handed them to him, and went on her way.

IIIIIIIIII

Twenty-five minutes later, she wondered if all of his undershirts were this worn, or if he had given her such a threadbare one on purpose. It was not quite thin enough to read a newspaper through, but she did almost regret not choosing the towel wrap. Still, she was willing to brazen this out, because she felt so much better after her shower. On her way through the bedroom, she made herself look at the bloody smile, to call up all her empathy for him. She wondered if she had a handle on what he really needed from her, if letting him pen her in like this was the best thing she could do for him. "Help me hold out." She was unsure just when she had stopped thinking, and started praying.

When she returned to the first floor, carrying her dirty clothes in a bundle, Jane got up from the couch to stand squarely in front of her. The heat of his reaction to seeing her dressed in his flimsy t-shirt and undershorts, smelling her covered in the scent of his soap and shampoo rather than her own, rushed through his brain and body. Consciously he had only thought of causing Teresa Lisbon to subsume her will to his. For the second time since bringing her to this house, he found himself ambushed by the visceral pull of his body to hers. Worse, he refused to see it for what it was - as much now as when his need for revenge was replaced by his need for her in the dark hours of the previous night - he counted it as a simple biological miscalculation; denying his essential desire to be one with her, separating body from soul, he had willfully cultivated the decay of passion into bald, crude possessiveness.

Lisbon saw what rolled through him and recognized it instinctively. She saw his eyes darken, roaming from her eyes to her mouth then down her body, traveling all over her. Frozen, she had been about to open her mouth to ask a question, but nothing came out. She had been scared for him for more than twenty-four hours, but for the first time she was truly scared of him.

Wrapping his hand around her forearm, as he had in the bedroom the afternoon before, he led her through the kitchen into the utility room. There was a wicker laundry basket sitting on top of the dryer. He pointed to it, and she dropped the clothes into it. Then he led her outside.