Oh man, this is very, very hard to write. Probably the hardest thing I've ever had to write.
Chapter Nine: Unwound
He awoke to the sound of metal sliding on metal and the creak of a door. Muffled voices grew louder as he neared full consciousness.
Eyes still closed, he smiled softly as he heard her voice. Her cinnamon infused scent invaded his senses and, for a moment, he felt...at peace.
The smile faded as reality intruded. He sat up suddenly, brow furrowed and eyes trying to search through the now dark room.
Why did he hear her voice?
"God, I can't believe Rigsby lost him. It's been less than a day." Her irritation shone through and for a moment he was just so thankful to hear it that he couldn't even bring himself to care that he was hallucinating again.
The lights went on and he squinted into the brightness. Blinking, her form became clearer and he stilled. She had her back to him and he just made out Cho's figure over her shoulder. Cho locked gazes with Jane.
"Hi, Jane."
Simple as that.
Her dark hair flew out as she whirled to face him, breathing out his name as she saw him.
A band tightened around his chest. She wasn't real.
She took a few steps toward him.
She wasn't real.
Cho walked in and sat in the armchair next to the couch without acknowledging Lisbon. Jane knew that he wouldn't acknowledge Lisbon because she was not real. She was gone. Dead. Cho spoke. "Why'd you leave Rigsby?"
Jane forced himself to look at Cho. "I had to."
Cho's expression didn't change. "Why?"
Jane ignored Lisbon's figure moving closer. She wasn't real. "I needed to be near what is left of her."
Now Cho's eyebrows rose a bit. He opened his mouth to speak, but Jane cut him off.
"I know. It's stupid." Jane ran a hand through his hair in agitation, creating more disarray in the golden curls. "I mean, the probability of her stuff even being here was…but it is."
His hand fell to the blazer laid across his lap. "And even if she's—I know that she's…well, I had to."
Cho looked at him for a long moment. Jane heard her expel a harsh breath.
He could not look at her, he reminded himself. She. Was. Not. Real.
His body was tense with the effort of resisting.
And then the world's axis shifted, leaving Jane once more reeling on unstable ground.
Cho turned. "Boss?"
Jane stopped breathing. Cho saw her…?
He couldn't move. He felt paralyzed, clutching her blazer and staring at the floor in front of her couch. The soft click of heels and then her shoes—Lisbon loafers, a memory from another time, another conversation—invaded his view.
"Jane?"
He couldn't look up at her, afraid that if he saw her face, he would break down, beg her to stay with him. If he acknowledged her, then it would collapse. This lovely dream where he wasn't hallucinating, where Cho could see her, too. That would fall away and she would be gone.
And he would be here alone. Again.
"Jane. Look at me."
He had to ignore her.
The brush of a hand against his hair and then the soft, warm press of fingers on his jaw, lifting his head, forcing their eyes to meet. Blood rushed in his ears and he lost himself in her sad gaze. Regret flickered through her emerald eyes.
Jane's voice was rough—scratchy—when he spoke. "Cho? Am I—"
Lisbon's hand fell away and her eyes were chambers housing tortured emotion. Jane wanted to look away, to look to Cho to confirm that this was a hallucination again. He didn't move.
Cho's response came across the still room like a crashing vase in a library.
"It's her, Jane."
The edges of Jane's vision tinted black, his fingers clenching and unclenching convulsively.
Cho spoke once more. "She's really here. You're not seeing things."
Jane's eyes filled with tears, the moisture pushing the darkness away. Simultaneously angry and relieved, he rubbed a hand over his face, trying to regain control of his emotions. He laughed lightly, weakly, unsure if he was stuck in a dream—maybe a nightmare if he had to wake to find that she was dead—or if he could trust that this was real.
He wanted to ask questions—how? Why?—and even opened his mouth, working to push the words through a throat constricted with emotion. He teetered on the knife point of control, wanting nothing more than to unravel this latest puzzle. Terrified that if he unraveled it, he would be unraveling what was left of himself.
He would have made the words come, would have asked Cho—asked her—but her hand reached out once more, tentatively brushing his shoulder.
He couldn't stop it.
Her soft touch unwound something in him and he could do nothing but reach out and pull her to him, wrapping his arms around her hips and burying his face in her stomach.
Sobbing and breathing her in and hoping that he wouldn't wake from this if it was a dream.
Her hands fluttered awkwardly in the air. It was so her that he knew this must be real. His dreams, his nightmares, would have had her clutching him immediately.
In reality, she was so unsure of how to handle him when he was this emotionally vulnerable.
Distantly he heard her tell Cho to give them a moment.
A moment passed and then her hands settled on his shoulders, squeezing a bit. Another moment—a lifetime—and her hands slid along his back, drawing him closer, embracing him as he allowed himself to fully grieve for the first time since he saw her blood spilled across the pavement.
To grieve, apparently, for this living, breathing woman who had haunted him these last few months.
No. Spectres haunted. Ghosts.
His grip tightened.
She was no wraith about to disappear.
He was never letting her go again.