I've always loved this exchange in Blue Bird:

Cho: I hope he fixes things with Lisbon.

Abbott, heavily: Yeah.

Cho: We should go check on them.

Abbott: Noooooooo.

…because Rockmond Dunbar manages to infuse it with Abbott's conviction that he's about 40% they're still yelling at each other, 60% they're already in bed, and either way he ain't sticking his hand in that. At any rate, I started imagining the scenario where Abbott was right, and…

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"You son of a bitch!"

This was not the Teresa he knew. The Teresa he'd hired didn't lose her cool on a case, certainly not one this big and high-stakes, and for sure she didn't douse people in water.

Still – and especially given that he'd turned out his entire team, pulled them all into Florida, leaves cancelled, thousands spent, on what turned out to be a scam by his ever-troublesome consultant – he could certainly understand the impulse. He sighed inwardly and reconsidered asking for the wine list as Teresa stormed off, in her cloud of pink, towards the stairs. He'd known this whole situation was asking to blow somehow. He'd known the two of them couldn't walk away from each other, not like this. He'd been prepared for tears, yelling, last-minute changes of plan, sneaking around. Just about anything. Anything, that is, except finding out his entire high-priority case was a fake.

He couldn't go on like this.

"Maybe I should, uh, go and talk to her," said Jane, obviously rumpled for once, and dripping to boot.

"Yeah."

"Probably should order without us."

What the hell, thought Abbott, and gestured for the wine list as Jane retreated. Might as well go all in. "Jane."

Jane turned expectantly near the top of the stairs.

"Just kiss her."

Jane flapped his hand to signify the ridiculousness of the suggestion, and donned his most charming and confident grin, but Abbott knew his consultant better than he'd once done, and he didn't miss that the grin had already started to slide before Jane had fully turned around.

Abbott contemplated the choice of Malbecs – god, he needed a drink – before becoming aware that his remaining agent was staring.

"Why'd you say that?" said Cho abruptly.

He swivelled his head to stare back at the man that, to this point, he'd have described as observant and shrewd. "Really? You don't know why?"

"They're not like that." Cho's gaze was intent.

Abbott snorted. "Like hell they're not. You might have stopped seeing what's in front of your nose, but they've been nuts about each other for years. Just couldn't get it together to do anything about it. I was there when the CBI went down, remember. You know what she did for him. You know he came back for her."

Cho dropped his gaze to the menu, and Abbott detected a hint of embarrassment. "I just. I don't see it. They could've, but they never. I don't think they see each other that way."

Abbott caught the waitress's eye. "Yes, the Chilean Malbec, please. The bottle. And another glass."

Cho shook his head from side to side, barely perceptibly. "I don't see it."

Abbott patted him gently on the shoulder, and pushed a glass across the table as the waitress returned with a bottle.

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Jane tried to still his trembling as he approached the door beside his own. This was bad, This was very, very bad. He'd seen her mad – he'd seen her mad so many times, over so many things, but it had never liquefied his insides like this. He'd been less afraid walking into that chapel to face McAllister than he was now.

He couldn't go on without her. He couldn't. It was huge and inescapable and solid as rock and it had circled itself in his head for weeks now. But he had held it at bay – more or less – until Cho told him her transfer paperwork was in. Cho didn't lie or play games. Cho loved Lisbon too. And, and then his mind had seen a dozen scenarios play out, and he'd made some calls, and things had happened, but he'd never seen this scenario play out, because it couldn't happen, it couldn't –

He gathered himself and knocked.

"Lisbon."

"Go away!"

"Please open the door."

"Go away."

There was nothing left. Nothing but a threadbare truth. He licked dry lips. "You know, I'm – I'm sorry that I tricked you." He swallowed. "I just. I just, uh…"

"You just what?" Her voice was hard, and there was no mercy in it for him. He needed to see her face. "Jane, what were you doing?"

His voice came out shakier than he wanted. "I just don't want you to leave." He swallowed against the endless weight of I can't exist if you go I just can't do it I don't know how to keep breathing if I can't see your face I don't know who I am if you aren't here to tell me and I can't die because you won't let me.

Her voice was shaking too, and the words were landing like physical blows, only the worst actually penetrating his ears. Used. Corpse. Twisted. Decent. Human. He had to see her face.

Abbott had seen something. Abbott had told him what he should do. Abbott was - was possibly crazy, or a fool, or just wrong, but maybe, just maybe, he'd seen something Jane hadn't. And it was all falling apart, it was all burning down, and he may as well burn with it.

It gave him the strength to pick the lock. It was an old-fashioned hotel, and they had old-fashioned key locks, and even with his hands shaking he could do this in his sleep.

Lisbon froze when the door started to open, he saw her do it, and then she resumed her angry stomping from closet to the suitcase she had dumped on the bed. "Jane, what the fuck are you doing. How dare you! Get out!"

She'd never sworn at him before. Never. He took two trembling steps forward.

Lisbon shoved the clothes in her hands into her case with venom; he could see the pink dress dumped on a chair in the corner, on top of the two others he gave her, still ghostly with her scent and the shape of her body. She'd changed back into shirt and jeans, so quickly, like she couldn't wait one more second to scrub any evidence of his gift from her body. "I don't know why I expected anything else from you. You really never listen – you've never cared what I wanted – ". Her eyes were as red as his, she was swallowing against tears, and he was now wholly empty of words, and it was just enough, just enough to let him stumble the next few steps to her when she paused for breath and press his lips against hers.

00000

Everything stopped. She stopped.

Jane was shaking from head to foot, and he was kissing her, tentatively, just a press of lips, and for a few seconds, everything was just utterly, completely frozen – her voice stilled in her throat, her body, her hands, caught in midair with handfuls of her underwear, of all things, just hanging, and the first thing she'd thought, stupidly, was why did it have to be while she was holding her underwear?

Then the lights came back on, and she put both hands on his chest and shoved, hard.

He reeled backwards, caught a foot on one of the heavy armchairs, and almost fell. The air she drew in felt almost superheated, her body incandescent, her anger a living thing that stalked the room in the shell of her body.

"Jesus Christ. What the fuck, Jane! How dare you! How can you just come in here and, and – "

His eyes were wide; he was on the verge of panic, and she knew he was probably less than ten seconds from bolting. He always ran. She was so angry

"What the hell were you thinking? What were you doing? You're so selfish – "

and she grabbed his shirtfront and yanked him in.

He almost stumbled again before his mouth hit hers, and it was only her grip on his shirt that kept him on his feet; she felt iron, immovable, unstoppable. She kissed him harshly, not letting go for a second, because he had to understand, she had to make him understand how angry she was, he had to know –

He made a sound against her mouth. She was not interested in his sounds, She opened her mouth to shut him up. He made another sound, muffled, and she blocked it with her tongue. He needed to be quiet. She let go of his shirtfront and wound one hand into his hair to hold him in place; it was soft against her fingers. His shirt was still wet where it pressed against hers. He was still shaking. She tightened her grip, and he settled a little. He had to understand

His hand was on her shoulder now; she bucked it, irritated, and the hand slipped off and slid down her back until it rested on the uppermost part of her ass. That was better. That felt better. She let go of his shirt with her other hand, and wound her arm firmly around his hips. He shuddered, and she felt him swallow into her mouth. That was better too. She kissed him fiercely. He was finally listening. He tried to break away from her, but she held him firmly in place with her hands and her hips and her mouth.

He pulled back for a second and gulped. "Teresa – " he said hoarsely

She fisted her hand in his hair and growled, "Shut. Up." She shook him lightly, like a kitten.

Then she pulled him back into her and let go of his hair so that she could push his jacket off with both hands. One of his big hands was now firmly on her ass, one spread between her shoulderblades, and he wasn't trying to get away. He answered her with his tongue, and it was fluid and diving, back and forth, it was finally what she'd needed him to say, and she let out a guttural little cry of satisfaction as his hand tightened on her ass and she pressed her pelvis firmly against his. Their conversation needed to be skin to skin now, her skin to his, she knew exactly what she needed to say, and she pressed him firmly back towards the bed with her hips, feeling him hard against her belly, the magnet drawing them both inexorably. He hit the bed and his knees folded, and all of a sudden she was leaning down instead of up. She broke off from him briefly to shove the suitcase off the other side of the bed. Then she looked at him.

He was panting a little, and his hair was wild. His eyes were huge and dark in the fading sunset light of the room. His shirt had been pulled out of his pants, and there was blood on his lower lip.

None of it mattered. All of it mattered. She started unbuttoning his shirt, knocking his hands aside impatiently as he tried to help, and yanked it off his shoulders as soon as the last button was free. She started on his belt. He let her, his dark dilated eyes on her face, his breathing rough and audible. He toed off his shoes and socks as she yanked his pants down, lifting his hips obligingly. She kicked off her own shoes, and pushed on his shoulders hard until he shuffled backwards into the centre of the bed, half-reclined on his elbows while she unbuttoned her jeans and let them fall. He was so hard. She tugged her panties off. She climbed onto the bed and pinned him by straddling his hips.

"You don't talkto me, Jane," she said viciously, and pulled her shirt off over her head. She reached behind her and unhooked her bra. Then she flowed into him.

This is what she'd needed, how she needed to be listened to, what she needed to hear. Now it made sense; now her skin moving against his was a symphony. His arms were back around her as she ground against him, and he groaned, deep and harsh, and she wanted to hear it again, more, louder. He was saying her name, over and over, but she didn't need words anymore, just his hands on her skin and the sweetness of the warm skin on his shoulder and the shudder that ran right through him, toes to scalp, when she bit into it. He was helpless, he was hers, he understood now, and she was quicksilver, she was liquid heat. He couldn't stop himself from thrusting up, raggedly and unevenly, and she was ready to line herself up and take him when he braced himself, put his full weight into it, and rolled them.

Her back hit the bed, and before she had time to recover, he had crawled down her body and buried his face between her legs, and she was gone. He licked her frantically, two fingers pushing inside her and crooking up, and she could hear the sounds coming out of her own mouth as she buried both hands in his hair again, and she realised that he wasn't quite able to stop himself from rocking his own hips against the bedspread, and he thrust his fingers in again and pressed up, and she shattered.

When she came back to herself, one hand was still in his hair, and the other was fisted in her mouth, teeth in her own knuckles. She could see the marks she'd left. His head was on her thigh, his eyes screwed tight shut, his breathing uneven as he held himself tightly in one hand. She tugged at his hair, wanting him up, wanting his taste, and he crawled the length of her body with his eyes still shut and fell on her mouth like a starving man. She tasted herself on him, warm and intimate, and wrapped herself closer around him, arching up to finally be as close as she needed to be. It was better now, but it wasn't done yet, not finished, not enough. She felt him shudder again, and reach between them with one clumsy unsteady hand, and then he was finally inside and she sighed out with satisfaction and contentment.

His movements were uncoordinated, convulsive, and she felt arousal building again at how completely he was hers now. His eyes were still closed, his knees either side of her, his arms braced to either side of her head; she was surrounded by him, his smell and his body and the noises he couldn't help making into her ear. She set her teeth in the ridge of muscle on his shoulder, urging him on with her hips and her hands on his back, until he kissed her again in a frenzy, her tongue answering his, and it was more than enough.

He'd slowed and buried his face in her neck, almost not moving any more, and she stroked his face, his hair, sensing how close he was to total overwhelm. All her anger had dissipated with her first orgasm, blown away like smoke; everything left inside her was liquid tenderness for him.

"Jane. Jane. Patrick."

He shook his head slightly, still pressed into her neck.

"Jane. Patrick." She tugged lightly at his hair until he lifted his head, letting him keep his eyes averted; she could feel his embarrassment, his shame. She kissed him lightly. "I've got you. It's OK. I promise."

His face was anguished, tense with the climax he was fighting, jaw tight, eyes screwed shut. She kissed his eyelids and arched up just as she dug her nails into his ass, and he groaned a long anguished groan into her shoulder and began to thrust again, helplessly, faster now. She encouraged him on with her body, stroked him, urged him silently and in word to let himself go, until finally he buried his face in her again and spent himself in a long ragged series of tremors.

It took her several minutes afterwards to realise that his breathing wasn't slowing, that he wasn't letting go, that the shuddering breaths he was giving weren't of recovery, and that her neck and shoulder were wet. She held him, welcoming his warm weight, murmuring comfort into his hair, his skin, until his breathing finally slowed and evened and she gently shifted his weight off to her side.

She stroked him absently as her mind wandered, as the light slowly faded from the room. She wanted to move, a little, to stretch her limbs and to pee, but she'd never been able to bring herself to disturb him while he slept without cause, and his face had the unmistakable signs that his sleep of late had not been easy, so she lay still and let time pass. What had happened between them had – had – had not even been sex, really, not as she knew it, but something that swept up and through both of them, as unstoppable as a storm. She'd been so angry, and she'd wanted his honesty, needed it even, and for once, as he just took her anger, no fight in him, everything had seemed so simple…

It could so easily not have happened. If he hadn't picked the lock…

Her cab had obviously long ago come and gone in the frantic, noisy interlude that now seemed almost dreamlike. Her suitcase she could half-see from where she lay, spilling its contents across the floor. She hadn't gotten as far as booking a flight; she'd thought she'd just get the first one available, as soon as she got to the airpor…

"Oh shit," she said out loud, the words falling like a stone on the quiet, humid air of the darkening bedroom, and Jane shifted in his sleep, his brow contracting.

Oh shit. Oh shit. Marcus.