AN: So I was going to apologize for last chapter's cliffhanger, but then I realized that this chapter also ends that way. Must be the nature of this story. At any rate, thanks for the encouraging reviews - they keep me motivated!
Also, I just wanted to let you all know that I will be on holiday for the next five or so weeks with possibly iffy access to wifi. I will try to keep updating at least once a week, but don't be surprised if updates aren't as usual as they have been!
Jane's eyes flash open, and his body jerks forward.
A very strong, warm pair of hands grab his shoulders and coax him to lean back. He looks over, and the first thing he sees is Lisbon's bright green eyes. Immediately, he knows she is equal parts concerned for him and pissed at him, though the latter appears to be winning out.
His eyes dart around, taking in the dreary hospital room, and he lets Lisbon guide him back to rest against the pillows. When he looks out the window, he realizes whatever Erica injected him with knocked him out for several hours—it's now late evening at the very earliest.
Jane meets Lisbon's eyes. Her expression hardens.
"What the hell were you thinking?" she asks furiously, and her question almost sounds like a hiss.
"You're upset." It's stupid, but Jane's mind still feels a bit addled from the drugs. He's impressed he managed to string the two words together at all.
Lisbon stands up, vacating her spot on the edge of Jane's bed. She keeps her arms tightly by her sides, but Jane can see the tension that's running through them. Her hands clench into fists.
"Oh, yeah," she says. "Honestly, Jane—how can you not see that this feels like a betrayal to me? You helped a murderer escape from prison for crying out loud! And, I might add, you did so after I explicitly told you not to!"
Jane closes his eyes for a few seconds, attempting every biofeedback trick he's aware of in order to rid his mind of the drug's haziness. He doesn't completely succeed, but now the whiteout is more like fog, and this he can navigate.
"You have to know why I did it," says Jane weakly. "Lisbon, come on—didn't Cho tell you about your necklace?"
Lisbon crosses her arms over her chest. "Yeah, he did," she says. "It's in evidence now. I'm not sure I want it back."
Jane's gaze is imploring. "Have you thought about how your necklace ended up on a corpse, Lisbon?"
Lisbon shivers, though she tries to hide this. "I haven't let myself think about that, no."
He sits up, trying to lessen the distance between them. "When was the last time you saw your necklace?"
"The night you stayed over," she admits. "I remember putting it in my jewelry box on the dresser—because I felt you watching me while I did so."
"That's the last time I saw it, too," Jane says. "And then, the next morning, you couldn't find it."
Lisbon closes her eyes, as though this will allow her to tune out Jane's next words.
"He was there, Lisbon," Jane says, his voice wavering slightly as he fights to keep it under control. "He was in your bedroom that night. He saw us. He saw us together."
"How could we not have woken up?" she says, her voice low.
"I'm normally a light sleeper," Jane agrees. "But that night I was emotionally strung out. And that stressed you out. Once we got to sleep, we slept soundly."
Lisbon opens her eyes, and Jane's hands begin to shake. He watches as she takes note of this, her expression finally softening, and she steps toward him, perching again on the side of his bed.
"You know why I helped her escape," Jane says.
"Explain it to me anyway."
"Red John was in the same room as us. He could have killed us—he could have killed you." Jane reaches over to grab her hand, and he is relieved when she lets him. "I needed to know everything I could to make sure that didn't happen. And as of this afternoon, Erica was my best means of doing so."
Lisbon considers this, and she takes her time in responding. "I understand," she eventually says. "But that doesn't change the fact that I am extremely pissed at you. Not to mention hurt. In fact, it's taking a massive amount of effort for me to refrain from punching you in the nose right now. And a few other places where it might hurt more."
This is probably the best Jane will get, so he nods, grateful. "She got away, then?"
"Nobody's quite sure how," Lisbon admits. "Security cameras went out for a few minutes, and apparently Bertram stopped by to talk about the team's new recruit when you were in my office with Erica. Cho, Rigsby, and Van Pelt had to give him their full attention—otherwise he would have realized something was up. Cho said they turned their backs for one minute then went to check on you…at which time, you were already lying unconscious on the couch. Van Pelt had managed to slip a GPS device in one of Erica's pockets, but she had already located it and destroyed it by the time the team tried to track her."
"Damn it," Jane murmurs under his breath.
"Yeah," says Lisbon, her tone unforgiving. "I wouldn't be surprised if the team joined me on entrance security. Clever plan you had there, Jane—not only putting people's lives in danger but their jobs as well. Nicely done."
Her words sting more than he cares to admit, but he knows he deserves every one of them, so he takes them in silence.
Lisbon gives him a look. "What the hell went on between you and Erica anyway?"
Jane's eyes narrow at her tone. It seems almost…jealous. "What do you mean?"
Lisbon's gaze flashes to his neck, and Jane's hand immediately goes to the skin there, which is slightly raw to his touch.
"Damn it," he says.
Erica left a hickey.
And in plain view, knowing full well Lisbon would see.
Lisbon averts her eyes. "You also have some lipstick…" She trails off, indicating with her hands to the general area on his neck where the telltale red mark remains.
Jane is livid. "She bit me after she injected me with the needle," he explains.
Lisbon looks like she'd rather be just about anywhere in the world than having this conversation. "Did you at least get any information out of her?"
Their eyes finally meet. "Red John was a client of hers," he says. "That's how they met. She told me he was different than all the others—meaning the people she tried to play matchmaker for."
Lisbon nods. "It's a start," she says.
Then she looks out the window, clearly still uncomfortable. Jane squeezes her hand to bring her attention back to him, and he shifts under the scratchy hospital blankets.
"Run away with me," he pleads.
This gets Lisbon's attention. "What?"
"Erica told me that Red John is focusing on you."
Her eyes become wide, and she swallows.
"He's planning to kill me," she whispers.
Jane shakes his head. "No," he says. "But Erica made it sound as though I'd prefer it if he did—as though what he actually has planned for you is far worse." Jane tugs on Lisbon's hand slightly, and she leans toward him. "She quoted Charles Dickens. 'The agony is exquisite, is it not? A broken heart. You think you will die. But you just keep living. Day after day, after terrible day.'"
"She meant you," says Lisbon, understanding. "You'll have to watch as Red John targets me. That's what she meant, right?"
"Run away with me," he says again. If he weren't in this damn bed, he'd be on his knees, begging her to listen to him.
She stares at him a long time, considering. His heart races.
"Jane," says Lisbon finally. "You know I can't."
He does, but this doesn't make the rejection ache any less.
For the next month, they try to pretend everything isn't falling apart.
But even Jane cannot sell this act.
Every morning, he wakes up terrified that she won't do the same. Every night he lies in bed for hours, wishing that she was next to him, that he could just roll over to check if she was breathing.
Every night for twenty-nine nights, he has to stop himself from getting in his car and driving across the city to check on her.
Of course, he knows his presence would do little to deter Red John had his intention actually been to kill her. He's well aware that if Red John wanted Lisbon dead, she would be.
The first time this thought occurred to him, he barely made it to the bathroom before emptying the meager contents of his stomach into the toilet in his motel room.
But Lisbon is still very much alive.
This, of course, implies that Erica had told him the truth: Red John has no desire to kill Lisbon.
Jane pushes away dark thoughts detailing what Red John actually has planned for her. He sinks onto the mattress in his motel room, shrugging out of his suit jacket and unbuttoning his vest.
Red John hasn't killed in twenty-nine days.
Jane knows he is purposely lying low, building anticipation. It's certainly working—Jane feels himself slowly going mad at the sheer agony of the unknown. In the meantime, as he waits for the other shoe to drop, Jane has to restrain himself from hovering over Lisbon, knowing that will make her go equally crazy. But it's difficult: a part of him wants to handcuff himself to her so that he can keep an eye on her at all times.
This wouldn't stop Red John, of course.
Jane searches for a mental distraction, hopelessly looking for some light to scatter the dark.
He lands on his latest memory of Lisbon. She'd suggested they go bowling, and he remembers how distinctly odd it felt to be sitting next to her at the lane.
On his turn, the ball had rolled three feet before promptly falling into the gutter. After Lisbon had subdued her laughter, she'd shown him how to roll the ball, guiding his arm with her own.
He'd at least hit some of the pins on the next try.
But underlying the whole occasion was a tension. They didn't acknowledge it, but it was clear that three people rather than two were involved in whatever relationship they had.
Whatever they do, they cannot seem to get away from Red John's presence.
Dusk is just beginning to fall outside now, and the motel room soon becomes dark. Jane stands up to walk over to the sink, and he splashes water on his face. He's just reaching to take off his vest when his phone rings, the caller ID showing Lisbon's name.
He answers immediately.
"Lisbon," he says, trying to make his tone light. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
She doesn't respond right away, but he can hear her breathing. It's ragged and rushed, and immediately he knows something is very wrong.
"Lisbon?" he says again.
"Jane," she whispers. Her breath hitches. "I…I need you."
Jane feels his world start to spiral away, out of control, but he steels himself.
"I'll be there as soon as I can."
When she fails to answer her door after Jane knocks several times, he grows more anxious. He slips his lock picks out of his pocket and lets himself inside, making sure to lock the door behind him.
It's now close to ten o'clock, and her apartment is dark. Suddenly he hears a soft sound coming from upstairs, and as he clears the staircase—taking the stairs two at a time—he realizes it's the sound of running water. He notices the door to the bathroom is shut, but there's no hint of light shining out from underneath.
Jane's brow furrows. What the hell?
His stomach lurches. Whatever he finds inside that door, he knows it won't be good news.
"Lisbon?" asks Jane softly, knocking on the door with his knuckles. There's no answer.
Jane's heart beats roughly, painfully, and he cannot take it any longer—he opens the door and immediately reaches for the light switch.
Light floods the small room, reflecting off of all the silvery surfaces, including the edges of the shower door. Jane walks slowly toward it, wading through the vapor from the shower—the source of the sound of running water.
He can see an outline of a small body through the door. It's not moving though, and Jane is immediately transported back a decade—to another door he wish he had never opened.
Jane wrenches open the shower door.
Lisbon's bright green eyes are the first thing he sees. She's shivering, her arms wrapped around her naked body. "Lisbon?" asks Jane, his relief at seeing her alive belied by the fact that she is obviously not alright.
"I'm cold," she says, shaking around the words, and Jane reaches to shut the shower off. The water runs over his arm, soaking his sleeve, but he's already grabbing a towel and wrapping it around Lisbon. He makes her hold the edges of the towel to keep it from falling as he grabs another, using this one to rid her hair of most of the excess water. Then he kneels down to dry her legs.
Jane guides Lisbon out of the shower, and they both drip water onto the tiled floor as they walk into the hallway and toward her room. Jane rummages through her dresser for a few minutes before finding an oversized jersey, and he makes her drop the towel so that he can slip it on over her head. Then he grabs a pair of socks and puts them over her feet.
She's still shivering like mad, and he walks her over to her bed in the semi-darkness of the room, guided only by the starlight coming in from the window. He gestures for her to crawl in, and she does so, looking slightly lost. Jane deposits his now-soaking vest and shirt on the floor and strides to the other side of the bed, sliding in next to her.
He pulls her immediately to his chest and begins rubbing his hands up and down her arms, trying to generate some friction.
"Jane," she whispers. "What's going on?"
I'd like to know that myself, he thinks. But instead he says, "You're in shock, Lisbon. Just concentrate on getting warm, okay?"
She rests her fingers on his chest, and he nearly flinches at how frigid they are. "My legs are freezing," she mumbles, burrowing her head into the hollow of his neck. Jane hooks one leg over both of hers, tangling their feet together, trying to increase the surface area of contact of their bodies.
After about fifteen minutes, Lisbon stops shaking.
In another five, she starts to cry.
Jane cradles her head, running his hands through her hair. "Lisbon," he says softly into her ear. "What happened?"
It takes her several attempts to get the words out. She stumbles through them, gasping for breath as she cries. Finally, she says, "I got a call from Karen."
Jane searches his memory palace. Eventually, he places the name—Karen is Lisbon's sister-in-law.
Stan's wife.
Suddenly, Jane can't breathe.
"No," he says quietly, and Erica was right—the agony is exquisite. "No—please, no."
Lisbon's hands snake around Jane's torso, pulling him impossibly closer. She takes another few gasping breaths, trying to get herself under control, but Jane knows this is no use.
"He's gone," she whispers. "Jane, he's gone."
Jane squeezes his eyes shut as the moisture rises in them, but he can't stop them from spilling over.
He doesn't know what to say—because nothing he can say will ever make this better. Nothing he can do will ever make Lisbon whole again.
So instead, he holds her as she sobs, and they spend their second night together hoping desperately for the first signs of morning.