"You want me to beg? How's this - I am begging you not to pull me into a one-sided fun-house reflection of making love. Please don't use sex to punish me. Please." She looked unwaveringly into his eyes for several moments then walked away from him, heading back into the house, not allowing herself to care if he followed.

He had seen something there in her eyes he had forgotten about - the unique mix of vulnerability and strength that she let him, and him alone, see. He had gotten deeper inside her than any other man because she had allowed it. She had given him power over her, and he remembered her words yesterday morning, before he put his teeth on her skin.

You had more power when you created your family... how much power do you want? Just enough to destroy me, or do you want more than that?

Jane turned and watched her go back inside. He had become weary of his anger. He found himself wanting to rest from it, the way he had yesterday, driving along the coast with Lisbon. He had a craving to go home - not to that empty house. His brain flashed on the white couch in Lisbon's office in Sacramento. It was not a real home; yet it was her den, where her pack ranged about her. It had her spirit in it. He gravitated to the patio, and slumped down on the stone bench. He wanted to go to her and ask her to take him home. She would not know what he meant - hell, he did not know what he meant. He was stuck here, for all his longing for something else.

IIIIIIIIII

In the house, her stomach clamored for attention. Lisbon had a tangerine, and made herself toast and eggs. After she ate, she had a strong urge to call the office. A measured dose of reality and some caffeine might soothe the iron band of tension around her head that was getting tighter and tighter. The iced tea helped a bit, but it was not strong enough to get the job done. She had lost track of Jane's cell phone. A cursory inspection of the house yielded nothing. He must have it on him. Great. There were several Russian mobsters she would rather go toe to toe with than confront Jane again without the fortification of coffee.

There was nothing for it but another walk to the store. If the coffee there was not the brilliant stuff she got at Marie's at least it was a step up from the usual sludge in the break room at the CBI offices. Walking cleared her mind. She realized that her original immediate concern for Jane, that he would do irreversible harm to himself, had passed long since. A wisp of worry reminded her of his plea yesterday to not leave him there alone. His admission that he needed her said something. He seemed to be fighting the process tooth and nail, but his interior life was changing - making the transition away from the quest for revenge. Not that she had much faith in Freudian schools of thought, but if there were glimmers of truth in those outdated theories of personality, maybe the fact that Jane focused his need for control in libido - metaphor for life-giving forces and connection to the human race - rather than thanatos meant that he was edging closer to actual healing.

IIIIIIIII

He was restless, needed to move from the cold stone bench. Yet he was not ready to face her again. Pacing behind the house for some minutes, he caught sight of the woman walking along the beach road. She was going in the direction of the little store where she had gotten coffee and reading material to occupy her time yesterday. Rationally he knew that was her destination and purpose this morning as well. Irrationally, the urge to run after her in case she was finally leaving him almost overpowered him. Short breaths, pounding heart, he willed himself to let her go. If she had decided on escaping the dungeon he had dragged her into, she deserved the freedom. It was no more selfless than a thief choosing not to steal, but it was a hard thing to do, to not clutch at her.

Laid against the visceral fear of watching her walk down the road, he also felt relief from the anger and insanity that her nearness incited in him. He welcomed the rationality that returned when she was out of reach. She had been reduced to begging him not to bind her up with a corruption of desires. It was shaming to him that she should have to do that.

Now with Lisbon out of the house, he felt drawn back into it. Without thinking about what he was doing, he found himself upstairs in the bedroom. Square in front of the face on the wall. He forced himself to look at it the way Lisbon seemed to look at it - not a horror, but rather a souvenir of a person who had loved him. Either his already faulty grasp on reality was fading, or his mind was releasing the madness from its clench. There was no way to tell what sensations in his mind meant which. On instinct, compulsion without reflection, he pulled the ring off his left hand and slid it up the ring finger of his right hand. He looked down at his hands. Mind quiet, heart numb, he made his way to the kitchen, and sat down at the island.

IIIIIIIIII

Lisbon kicked off her shoes and walked barefoot along the shore on her way back. The coffee warmed her in the chilly morning. If it were not for the burden seated on her by the conflict between Jane and herself, it would have been a lovely, relaxing stroll. She walked past so many homes full of life - children and parents, friends and neighbors. Coming up to the Jane residence from this distance and angle, she felt as though she were stepping from the earth to an alien landscape.

Going in through the utility room door, she came upon him, sitting on a stool. Jane's face was a blank, and pale.

"Are you OK?"

There was a flicker in his eyes but he did not speak or move. What had he done? She scanned the area around him and saw no clue - nothing unusual, nothing out of place - as to what could be wrong. "Jane, listen to me - what's wrong? What's going on?"

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He inhaled but simply could not speak to explain himself. The only thing that kept her from interior panic at the moment was the fact that he was not obviously bleeding. Her training took over, and she began assessing him for First Aid - closely observing him for signs of head wounds, internal injury, illness. She talked her way through it, explaining each step as she felt his skin, moved his joints, palpated his abdomen. Nothing obvious showed itself.

"Jane, what the hell? Please talk to me."

She stepped back and searched him with her eyes - this time from his feet up. When she got to his hands, she saw. The ring had been moved.

"Oh." Eyes blinking several times, immediate fear dissipated and she sat down on the stool next to him, her own energy drained after the adrenaline rush.

They sat in stillness together for several minutes when Jane finally spoke. His voice was low, calm, but sapped of strength. "Lisbon, would you be so kind as to make tea for me? Plenty of milk and sugar would be just the thing. I'd ask for brandy, but there isn't any here. You - you could probably do with some too."

It was too much; thinking about the meaning of his moving the ring was too much for her at the moment. He had asked for her help, so she focused on getting him the remedy for his shocky system. And he was right; her coffee was not enough fortification for this morning.

A/N: Thank you, Blue and Linlin for your reviews. It really keeps the author's morale up - and better morale means... well, I was going to say better writing, but I think the romantic notion of writers suffering for their art tells against that. Dunno if it makes the writing better, but it sure makes it more fun.